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THE  FREEDOM 
OF  THE  FIELDS 


From  many  a  fact  some  fancy  springs 
To  charm  life's  idle  hours  j 

To  frowning  cliffs  rare  beauty  clings 
When  decked  with  laughing  flowers. 


v 


THE 
FREEDOM  OF 
THE  FIELDS  BY 

CHARLES  C.ABBOTT 


•i    1 1 


JB.LIPPINCOTT  CO. 
PHILADELPHIA 


April  Day  Dreams 
By  Alice  Barber  Stephens 


THE 
FREEDOM  OF 
THE  FIELDS  BY 

CHARLES  C.ABBOTT 


J.B.LIPPINCOTTCQ. 
PHILADELPHIA  i 


COPYRIGHT,  1897, 

BY 
J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY. 


Ml 


RAMBLES,  YEARS  AGO,  ABOUT  CAMBRIDGE,  CONCORD,  AND 
CAPE  COD,  AND  OTHERS,  WITH  THE  SAME  COMPANION, 
OVER  THE  HOME  MEADOWS,  AND  UNDER  THE  OLD  OAKS 
ALONG  THE  HILLSIDE,  ARE  SO  OFTEN  RECALLED  AND 
ALWAYS  WITH  SUCH  PLEASURE,  THAT  I  CANNOT  DO 
OTHERWISE,  AND  BE  AT  PEACE  WITH  MYSELF,  THAN 

DEDICATE 

TO 

WALTER  FAXON, 

CAMBRIDGE,     MASSACHUSETTS, 
THIS  SIMPLE  RECORD  OF   MY  LATER   DAYS  AND  DOINGS. 

C.  C.  A. 

THREE  BEECHES, 

May  25,  1897. 


PREFACE 


THE    author    has    this    consolation :    a 
preface  is  the  whim  of  the  publisher, 
and  so  no  reasonable  reader  will   look  for 
literary  merit  in  this  perfun&ory  feature  of  a 
book. 

I  have  one  statement  to  make  that  gives 
me  great  satisfaction  and  is  in  place  here,  if 
anywhere.  I  wrote  the  following  pages  for 
my  own  amusement,  and  never  for  an  instant 
had  in  mind  either  the  patience  of  a  possible 
reader  or  the  views  of  any  publisher  as  to 
what  a  book  should  be.  I  have  not  adopted 
a  single  suggestion  made  by  critics  of  earlier 
volumes,  but  gone  out  of  my  way  to  repeat 
the  offence,  complained  of  recently,  of  sneer- 
ing at  the  impudent  assumption  of  some, 
necessarily  nameless.  For  once,  I  have  said 
my  say  in  precisely  my  own  fashion.  Never 
before  has  this  privilege  been  unrestrictedly 
allowed  me,  and  not  improbably  there  are 

vii 


viii  Preface 

those  who  will  cry  out,  "  So  much  the  worse 
for  you." 

Pages,  here  and  there,  of  this  volume  have 
seen  the  light  of  day  before  in  periodicals, 
and  are  here  reproduced  by  permission.  I 
trust  the  reader  will  not  be  moved  to  say  of 
such,  "And  once  was  quite  sufficient,"  or 
feel  it  his  duty  to  find  serious  fault  with  that 
which  confronts  him  for  the  first  time. 

C.  C.  A. 

THREE  BEECHES, 
May  15,  1897. 


CONTENTS 


An  April  Day  Dream II 

The  Changeful  Skies 19 

Passing  of  the  Bluebird 30 

In  Apathetic  August jp 

A  Foretaste  of  Autumn 49 

Indian  Summer 58 

The  Effects  of  a  Drought 63 

Winter-green So 

The  Witchery  of  Winter 87 

Company  and  Solitude 97 

Overdoing  the  Past 118 

Dreaming  Bob 129 

Winkle:  the  Eel-Man 146 

Windfalls 170 

My  Neighbor's  Wood-Shed 197 

Index                                225 


ix 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Page 
April  Day  Dreams      .     .     .  Frontispiece 

By  Alice  Barber  Stephens 

Apathetic  August 40 

The  Witchery  of  Winter 88 

The  Overflowing  Delaware  .     .     .     .      148 


AN  APRIL  DAT  DREAM 


AT  the  foot  of  the  hill,  where  the  wild 
winds  of  winter  can  never  reach,  and 
a  bubbling  spring  keeps  all  frost  at  arm's 
length,  there  I  have  been  accustomed  to  go 
for  many  a  year,  not  to  witness  any  exciting 
event  or  hear  the  initial  concert  of  the  coming 
season,  but  because  that  airy  fairy  creature 
Spring  first  touches  the  earth  at  this  point. 
Here  we  find  the  first  of  her  footprints,  and 
always,  before  going  up  to  possess  the  land, 
she  here  tests  her  power  of  revivification  by 
kissing  the  heavy  eyelids  of  the  sleeping 
violets.  Can  there  be  better  reason  for  this 
vernal  stroll  to  the  hill-foot  ?  The  very  faft 
that  the  year's  proper  beginning  is  so  gen- 
erally associated  with  youth,  and  youth  in  its 
most  attractive  guise  is  of  itself  an  induce- 
ment to  give  more  heed  to  the  season  of 
promise  than  to  those  of  fulfilment  which 
follow. 

ii 


12       An  April  Day  Dream 

How  often  the  lively  play  of  spring  has 
been  performed  on  this  planet  the  geologists 
have  never  told  us,  but  for  a  good  ten  thou- 
sand years  or  more  there  has  been  no  re- 
vision of  the  text,  and  yet  there  is  no  lack 
of  novelty.  The  quips  and  cranks  of  the 
imps  that  follow  in  the  train  of  her  ethereal 
mildness  are  always  fresh.  Likewise,  the 
loveliness  of  dewy  violets,  of  golden  daffo- 
dils, and  blushing  arbutus  are  as  dear  to  us  as 
they  were  to  our  forbears  in  the  infancy  of 
the  race.  But  we  are  never  asked  to  be  con- 
tent with  a  flower.  An  endless  array  of 
attractions  is  spread  before  us,  but,  being 
blind,  we  cry  out  that  the  world  is  empty. 
It  is  not  uncommon  to  find  men  posing  as 
perfection  and  criticising  that  part  of  the 
world  wherein  they  happen  to  be,  and  a 
genuine  appreciation  of  nature  detefts  in 
such  the  only  blemish  of  an  admirable  out- 
look. To-day,  though  Winter  has  not  yet 
quite  relaxed  his  hold,  there  were  abundant 
violets;  and  what  emerald  outsparkles  the 
dewy  mosses  ?  Here,  at  the  foot  of  an  old 
oak  that  had  sheltered  many  a  passing  Indian 
from  the  midsummer  sun,  and  perhaps  bore 
yet  the  scars  blazed  upon  it  by  the  first 


An  April  Day  Dream        13 

Dutch  trader  that  passed  down  the  Dela- 
ware ;  here,  in  the  bright  April  sunshine,  I 
had  but  to  raise  my  eyes  to  skies  of  marvel- 
lous beauty.  Surely  there  is  cause  for  joy  in 
a  cloud-flecked  sky,  and  who  lacks  company 
when  with  budding  oaks  ? 

Here,  here  !  called  the  ecstatic  crested  tit, 
as  if  I  had  a  thought  of  leaving  such  a  pleasant 
place.  There  are  times  when  one  can  more 
profitably  curl  up  in  a  corner  and  indulge  in 
day-dreams  than  wander  about;  and  this 
nook,  with  its  April  sunshine,  invited  to 
meditation.  The  mystery  of  the  mosses, 
the  significance  of  the  flowers,  the  change- 
fulness  of  panoramic  skies,  and,  back  of  all, 
if  we  give  up  these  problems  in  despair,  the 
suggestiveness  of  patriarchal  oaks.  I  had  no 
need  to  be  called  back  by  that  embodiment 
of  all  birdly  virtues,  the  crested  tit,  the  bird 
of  all  others  that  knows  nothing  of  discour- 
agement, and  bids  us  keep  in  good  heart  un- 
der the  blackest  skies. 

All  that  surrounds  us  speaks  to  us,  but  too 
often  in  strange  tongue.  Patience  is  an  ex- 
cellent interpreter,  but  how  seldom  we  wel- 
come it.  It  were  worthy  of  the  day  to  read 
the  wrinkles  of  the  gnarly  oak ;  but  again 


14       An  April  Day  Dream 

the  birds  called,  and  I  looked  away.  A 
thrush  was  busy  with  last  winter's  leaves, 
and  chirped  excitedly  when  it  found  me  at 
the  old  oak's  mossy  foot.  It  scolded,  I 
think,  protesting  that  I  was  trespassing  in 
bird-land ;  and  well  it  might,  for  have  we 
not  relinquished  all  our  rights  by  years  of  per- 
secution that  must  forever  be  a  disgrace  ? 
How  I  wished  that  this  early  thrush  would 
sing !  But  I  knew  that  it  was  a  passing  vis- 
itor, and  not  in  tune.  Its  melody  was  re- 
served for  some  far  New  England  wood,  and 
I  was  content  to  recall  the  summer  thrushes 
I  have  known.  Waving  a  violet  wand  to 
bring  back  other  days,  I  saw  again  the  rudely 
paved  path  leading  to  the  old  spring-house, 
and  heard  again  the  gurgling  water  as  it  hur- 
ried through  the  long  troughs  wherein  were 
placed  the  rows  of  milk-pans.  Passing  them, 
the  water  took  up  a  livelier  strain,  and  sang 
a  sweet,  sibilant  song  as  it  greeted  the  sun- 
shine. Sparkling  water  is  to  be  found  every- 
where,— "laughing  water,"  as  the  Indians 
called  it;  rippling  currents  smile  in  every 
brook ;  hurried  waters  rush  over  every  ob- 
strufting  rock ;  but  nowhere  since  those 
early  days  have  I  seen  a  more  merry  flow 


An  April  Day  Dream        15 

than  that  of  this  old  spring-house  brook.  It 
was  the  first  "  wild"  water  I  had  ever  seen. 
Has  this  to  do  with  it  ?  In  its  shallows,  I 
saw  for  the  first  time  living  fishes;  on  the 
damp  and  mossy  stones  near  its  edge  stood 
and  stared  bright-barred  and  spotted  sala- 
manders, that  fled  in  terror  from  my  extended 
hand ;  there,  too,  squatted  the  pretty  leopard- 
frog,  that  leaped  beyond  my  reach  as  I  ap- 
proached. It  is  not  strange  that  I  have  seen 
no  brook  since  that  sparkled  like  this  one.  A 
full  half-century  has  not  dimmed  its  bright- 
ness in  my  fancy,  and  the  place  is  as  I  first 
saw  it  when  I  close  my  eyes  and  stand  be- 
neath the  drooping  elm  and  stately  maples 
that  now  mark  the  spot,  from  which,  save 
the  brook,  every  old-time  feature  has  been 
removed. 

While  basking  in  the  April  sunshine,  as  I 
recall  the  old  spring-house  to-day,  the  out- 
standing glory  of  the  place  was  the  visit  of  a 
gentle  swallow  that  came  quite  near  me  and 
gathered  at  the  water's  edge  a  little  pellet  of 
damp  earth  for  the  nest  it  was  building. 
What  a  marvel  of  beauty  was  that  barn  swal- 
low to  my  childish  eyes  !  and  the  bird  is  just 
as  beautiful  to-day.  Swallows  at  all  dm«s 


16        An  April  Day  Dream 

add  a  charm  to  the  landscape.  They  are 
never  so  numerous  as  to  be  a  blot  upon  the 
fair  field.  Early  comers,  they  herald  the 
more  timid  birds  of  summer,  but  you  are  all 
too  likely  to  overlook  them,  for  they  are 
silent  as  the  flowers  when  the  thrushes  are 
in  song.  Not  literally  silent, — no  bird  is 
that, — but  we  fail  to  hear  their  twitter  when 
the  grosbeak's  grand  outburst  of  melody  fills 
the  evening  air.  It  is  not  strange.  The 
stanch  friends  of  childhood  are  usually  for- 
gotten when  we  face  the  "  great"  people  of 
the  earth ;  but  what,  after  all,  are  these  to  the 
trusty  folk  of  early  and  unsophisticated  days  ? 
How  few  ever  reach  beyond  the  grade  of 
twittering  swallows  and  yet  die  envious  of 
those  who  make  more  noise  in  the  world 
and  so  attract  the  gaping  crowd !  "  Poor 
and  content  is  rich,"  and  more's  the  pity 
that  we  did  not  place  greater  value  on  the 
twittering  swallows  of  our  early  spring. 
Their  twitter,  when  the  chill  of  winter  still 
lingers  in  the  air,  is  sweet  music,  and  the 
bird  is  all  we  ask  to  fill  the  April  outlook. 
Poor  then  it  may  be,  as  compared  with  the 
weakh  of  later  days,  but  were  we  not  con- 
tent, ay,  exuberant,  over  a  single  swallow,  and 


An  April  Day  Dream        17 

so  rich  ?  Poor  and  content  is  rich,  and  rich 
enough!  At  least,  let  us  not  be  forgetful 
of  the  April  days  when  the  swallows,  like 
guardian  spirits,  attended  upon  us  and  filled 
every  path  with  pleasantness  and  peace. 

But  it  is  useless  to  preach  :  that  is  some- 
thing long  since  overdone  in  this  world; 
our  bodies,  far  more  than  our  minds,  attend 
upon  it.  We  bless  the  first  swallows  of  the 
season  and  straightway  forget  them  when  the 
thrush  arrives ;  and  more,  if  they  dare  to 
twitter,  to  remind  us  of  April  happiness 
when  we  would  revel  in  the  ecstasy  of  May, 
then  we  curse  their  impudence.  They  do 
not  grieve  over  it.  Constant  swallows ;  in- 
constant, miserably  inconstant  and  inconsist- 
ent man ! 

A  lively  clatter,  as  if  the  birds  of  summer 
were  dancing  on  dead  leaves,  roused  me  from 
my  fancies,  and  I  was  one  with  the  present 
world  again.  An  April  shower,  a  tearful 
smile,  as  some  one  has  not  inaptly  called  it, 
passed  over  the  woods  and  across  the  meadows, 
leaving  in  its  train  glittering  glories  that 
dimmed  even  the  early  violets. 

Stand,  if  you  will,  at  some  commanding 
point  and  overlook  the  landscape  for  miles 


i8        An  April  Day  Dream 

and  miles  away;  see  not  a  single  tree,  but 
thousands  of  them ;  see  not  a  single  clod, 
but  field  after  field ;  see  the  scattered  ruins 
of  the  dead  year,  but  never  a  hopeful  violet 
at  your  feet,  and  to  you  it  will  be  winter 
still.  In  a  single  sunny  nook  I  found  a  little 
summer,  heard  nothing  of  the  fretful  moan- 
ing of  chilly  winds,  but  music  enough  to 
lead  me  in  fancy  to  the  flood-tide  of  mid- 
summer melody.  A  bit  of  moss,  scattered 
violets, — faint  foretastes,  let  me  hope,  of  the 
eternal  spring. 


THE  CHANGEFUL  SKIES 


I  cannot  read  ; 

'Twixt  every  page  my  thoughts  go  stray  at  large, 
Down  in  the  meadow. 

THOREAU. 

DOWN  in  the  meadow! — a  poem  of 
four  words  that  will  never  need  ex- 
planatory notes.  I  am  down  in  the  sense 
of  being  nearer  the  level  of  the  sea,  when 
there,  but  up,  high  up,  in  exhilaration. 
Lord  Bacon  says  that  this  emotion  is  not  as 
profound  as  joy ;  but  what  use  in  such  fine 
distinctions  ?  I  joy  in  the  exhilaration  that 
comes  from  breathing  the  meadow  air,  and 
let  us  attend  to  it,  rather  than  to  the  mean- 
ings of  words,  that  keep  our  cheap  champions 
of  erudition  so  busy.  I  went  down  to  the 
meadows  to-day,  that  1  might  more  readily 
look  upward,  having  thought  before  starting 
how  little  apt  are  we  to  consider  the  sky 
when  taking  an  outing,  and  yet  Shakespeare's 

19 


20         The  Changeful  Skies 

"  skyey  influences"  are  more  potent  than  we 
think.  I  do  not  mean  such  influence  as  that 
which  leads  to  glancing  upward  in  the  morn- 
ing, and,  in  the  fulness  of  our  conceit,  con- 
tradicting the  barometer.  There  are  men 
who  do  this,  get  caught  in  the  rain,  and,  de- 
nying it  the  next  day,  prove  themselves  not 
only  fools,  but  worse.  Thoreau  encoun- 
tered such  folk  even  in  Concord,  and  thought 
they  poisoned  their  immediate  atmosphere. 

In  going  out  of  doors,  it  is  a  little  strange 
that  that  which  is  most  prominent  is  likely 
to  be  least  noticed.  The  truth  is,  the  sky, 
which  is  but  a  name  for  an  appearance,  is 
nevertheless  the  most  obvious  of  fa&s.  If 
not  palpable  as  the  earth  beneath,  it  makes 
itself  felt,  which  is  much  the  same  thing  so 
far  as  the  rambler  is  concerned  ;  and  certainly 
much  is  lost  if  we  fail  to  respond  to  skyey 
influences. 

We  think  little  about  the  sky,  can  roam 
for  hours  beneath  it  without  looking  up ;  and 
yet  it  is  the  most  assertive  object  in  the  out- 
look :  poets  have  applied  to  it  more  adjec- 
tives than  to  any  objecl:  beneath.  They 
descant  on  "  the  witchery  of  the  soft  blue 
sky,"  but  what  of  the  heartlessness  of  the 


The  Changeful  Skies         21 

steel-blue  canopy,  when  there  is  not  a  trace 
of  life  within  sight  or  hearing  ?  The  cloud- 
less sky  of  June  is  not  that  of  January. 

Because  there  were  few  birds,  fewer 
flowers,  and  but  little  green  grass  where  I 
chanced  to  wander,  I  took  the  hint  from 
Ovid :  the  skies  are  open — let  us  try  the 
skies.  So  I  looked  long  upon  them  as  they 
overhung  the  old  meadows,  old  as  the  glacial 
period,  and  yet  how  new  as  compared  with 
the  sky  that  now  looked  down  upon  them ! 
To-day  the  sky  was  blue,  fading  to  violet, 
with  one  great  white  cloud  that  slowly 
marched  to  intercept  the  sun.  It  was  with 
keen  pleasure  that  I  watched  this  rolled  and 
rounded  mass  of  drifted  snow,  for  such  it 
seemed,  draw  near.  It  did  not  dissolve  nor 
hurry  in  torn  fragments  from  the  fray,  but 
with  bold  front  shut  out  the  sunbeams. 
What  a  marvellous  change  takes  place  when 
the  meadows  are  shifted  from  sunshine  to 
shade  !  That  short-lived  shadow  brought  in 
its  train  a  whispering  breeze,  but  so  gently 
did  it  pass  that  I  fancied  it  was  the  shadow 
itself  that  whispered. 

A  word  here  as  to  the  imagination.  If  it 
is  kept  within  too  close  bounds,  your  outing 


22         The  Changeful  Skies 

is  likely  to  prove  so  many  miles  of  walking 
to  no  purpose.  It  is  not  fair  to  say  that 
inaccuracy  is  sure  to  follow  the  free  play  of 
the  imagination.  Our  fancy  need  not  aft  as 
a  distorting  glass,  and  does  not,  except  with 
the  author's  connivance.  The  greatest  blun- 
derers about  nature  have  been  the  precise 
students  who  occasionally  find  themselves 
outside  their  closets.  It  is  one  thing,  as 
Bryant  puts  it,  to 

Go  forth  under  the  open  sky  and  list 
To  Nature's  teachings, 

but  another  to  know  what  to  do  when  you 
get  there.  My  suggestion  is  to  let  your 
imagination  have  scope  as  well  as  your  ap- 
preciation of  the  a&ual  facts  you  meet  with. 
There  need  be  no  conflici  in  your  mind,  nor 
any  misleading  statement,  if  you  are  moved 
to  speak. 

To  return :  quickly  again  the  sky  was 
bright  and  blue,  and  the  meadows  were 
filled  with  light, — a  clear,  warm,  penetrating 
light,  that  was  reaching  the  rootlets  and 
bulbs  in  the  damp  soil,  quickening  them. 
The  grape  hyacinth  had  already  responded, 
and  reflected  the  deepest  color  the  April 


The  Changeful  Skies         23 

skies  had  offered ;  and  the  earliest  of  our 
larger  lilies  was  above  the  grass,  with  the 
yellow  of  the  noonday  glare  in  its  blossoms. 
These  flowers  show  well  together,  repre- 
senting on  earth  the  sun  and  sky ;  but  how 
seldom  do  we  turn  from  them  to  the  high 
heavens !  A  few  flowers  will  hold  us  while 
the  firmament  is  marked  by  conditions  which 
may,  at  least  in  our  lifetime,  never  again 
occur. 

There  hangs  in  the  hall  a  barometer  that 
has  foretold  for  many  years,  without  blun- 
dering, the  kind  of  weather  that  we  are  to 
have,  and  it  can  be  read  with  profit  when 
interpreting  the  skies.  For  instance,  it  often 
happens  that  before  the  great  masses  of  svllen 
clouds,  bringing  the  summer  shower  or  the 
day-long  rain,  appear  above  the  horizon,  we 
are  informed  by  it,  and  so  can  anticipate 
their  coming  and  watch  their  progress.  This 
is  akin,  in  the  pleasure  it  affords,  to  finding 
a  new  flower  or  hearing  the  song  of  a  rare 
bird.  There  is  less  sameness  in  the  cloud- 
flecked  skies  than  upon  the  earth  when  light 
and  shadow  dash  across  the  scene.  I  recall 
one  long  cloud  that  slowly  rose  from  half  the 
horizon  at  once  and  moved  like  a  huge  cur- 


24         The  Changeful  Skies 

tain  overhead.  The  air  was  "  light"  as  that 
on  mountain-tops,  and  so  free  from  dust  that 
the  senses  of  sight  and  hearing  were  unusually- 
acute.  The  sky  seemed  more  distant  than 
when  free  from  clouds,  or,  as  the  phrase 
goes,  was  hollow.  The  nearer  objefts  in 
the  outlook  were  more  removed  than  usual, 
as  though  we  looked  through  the  wrong  end 
of  a  field-glass,  and  yet  every  outline  was 
distindt.  Sounds  that  we  often  hear  without 
recognizing  as  other  than  part  of  the  general 
hum  of  the  day's  a&ivity  were  now  startling. 
There  was  not  a  crow  in  sight,  yet  the 
clamor  of  a  hundred  was  plainly  heard,  and 
the  whistle  of  a  cardinal  redbird  and  the 
clear  call  of  a  crested  tit  came  from  the  hill- 
side half  a  mile  away.  Such  sounds  as  these, 
coming  from  unseen  creatures,  added  interest 
to  these  "  hollow"  skies,  and  from  them  all 
revelations  were  expefted.  Much  besides 
rain  comes  from  above.  From  my  comfort- 
able resting-place  against  a  sloping  willow  I 
saw  the  avant-coureurs,  it  might  be,  of  the 
coming  storm,  a  long  line  of  small  black  dots 
that  slowly  altered  shape  and,  while  yet 
afar  off,  proved  to  be  herons, — long-necked, 
long-legged,  broad-winged  herons,  that  give 


The  Changeful  Skies         25 

such  a  wildness  to  the  remaining  marshes 
hereabouts.  With  a  background  of  blue  sky 
they  might  have  passed  unseen,  but  now 
each  was  grandly  pictured  against  the  leaden 
cloud,  and  in  the  still  air  I  fancied  I  could 
hear  the  rustling  of  their  wing-beats. 

Slowly  as  they  came  they  passed  from 
sight.  When  they  were  lost  to  me,  I  turned 
hopefully  to  the  point  where  they  had  ap- 
peared, and,  to  my  surprise,  saw  others. 
These  were  not  black  specks,  but  white  dots 
that  lengthened  into  lines  and  grew  to  great 
white  herons,  following  in  the  path  of  their 
blue  brethren.  The  clear  air  and  leaden 
background  brought  out  every  outline.  I 
could  see  them  move  their  heads  from  side 
to  side,  as  if  to  view  the  old  haunts  of  their 
ancestors.  How  vividly  they  brought  back 
the  days  of  old  delight,  when  I  was  young 
and  the  world  newer  than  I  find  it  now ! — 
those  over-full  days  that  in  many  a  way 
might  have  continued  but  for  the  ignorance 
of  man  and  the  vanity  of  woman.  It  is  a 
red-letter  day  of  late  when  we  can  see  the 
white  herons  on  the  river  shore ;  yet  I  have 
seen  them  in  great  numbers,  and  it  is  on 
record, "  the  white  cranes  did  whiten  the  river 


26         The  Changeful  Skies 

bank  like  a  great  snow-drift."  Let  heartless 
fashion  demand  a  feather,  and  the  death-war- 
rant of  thousands  of  birds  is  signed.  Here 
and  there  a  protesting  voice  may  be  raised, 
but  only  to  be  drowned  in  the  sneers  of  an 
indifferent  people.  I  once  was  foolish  enough 
to  speak  of  the  rights  of  a  rambler  to  the  wild 
life  left  about  us,  and  was  met  with  ridicule. 
"  I've  got  to  praftise  on  swallows  to  learn  to 
shoot  quick,"  was  my  interlocutor's  reply. 
My  summer  sky  must  be  cleared  of  its  swal- 
lows, it  seems,  to  meet  the  useless  skill  of  a 
brute  neighbor !  How  I  rejoiced  when  his 
gun  burst ! 

There  is  a  world  of  suggestiveness  in  the 
words  just  used,  "my  summer  skies." 
Therein  lies  ownership  of  a  wholly  satis- 
factory kind.  They  are  mine  without  cost, 
without  even  the  asking,  and,  better  still, 
without  depriving  others, — mine,  yours,  the 
common  wealth  of  all ;  and  yet  few,  it  ap- 
pears, place  any  value  upon  them.  To  many 
they  are  of  as  little  importance  as  the  frame 
of  a  picture;  yet  often  they  are  the  real 
pifture  and  the  earth  is  but  the  naked  plat- 
form upon  which  we  stand  to  view  it.  It  is 
hard  to  find  a  fitting  phrase  for  many  a  pano- 


The  Changeful  Skies        27 

ramie  sky ;  as  the  skies  of  early  June,  blue 
of  incomparable  shade,  with  white  clouds, 
pink-edged  and  piled  into  fantastic  shapes, — 
great  castles  that  are  unbuilt  before  you  can 
people  them  with  the  merry  elfs  and  fays  of 
the  month  of  roses.  In  June  we  have  those 
bright  skies  that  deepen  when  the  day  is  done 
to  blue-black,  and,  losing  their  flatness,  are 
lifted  to  a  hollow  dome  that,  star-studded, 
shows  you  at  last  how  very  far  away  it  really 
is.  The  skies  that  at  noon  rested  on  the 
tree-tops  that  hem  in  the  little  space  about  us 
grow  immeasurably  grand  at  midnight ;  and 
when  from  out  these  starlit  skies  we  hear 
strange  voices,  they  assume  a  new  impor- 
tance, and  we  begin  to  realize  better  their 
significance.  The  upper  region,  our  sky,  is 
seldom  lacking  in  animal  life.  Probably 
hundreds  of  birds,  in  the  course  of  a  day, 
pass  over  us,  just  out  of  sight ;  and  when  in 
the  silent  watches  of  the  night  we  plainly 
hear  the  voices  of  wanderers,  a  new  chapter 
of  ornithology  is  opened  to  us.  The  clear- 
toned  call  of  a  plover,  the  hoarse  croak  of  a 
raven,  the  chirping  of  many  finches,  the 
fretful  scream  of  an  eagle,  have  all  been 
noted  in  a  single  night.  We  can  only  fol- 


28         The  Changeful  Skies 

low  these  birds  in  fancy,  but  the  fancy  will 
not  lead  us  astray.  The  direction  in  which 
they  are  going  can  be  determined,  the  prob- 
able elevation  of  their  flight-path  estimated, 
the  guiding  features  of  their  course  made 
probable.  -Their  purpose  can,  of  course, 
only  be  conjeftured.  It  is  not  strange  that 
birds  of  many  if  not  all  kinds  travel  in  the 
dark,  for  this  absence  of  light  is  but  relative. 
The  stars  of  themselves  are  nothing  to  the 
birds  but  as  they  are  reflected  in  the  water. 
When  visible  in  this  way,  they  aft  as  finger- 
posts along  a  river  valley.  Such  doubtless 
is  the  guide  to  much  of  the  annual  migrato- 
rial  flight ;  and  the  black  lines  of  mountains 
would  be  readily  recognized  as  such,  while 
the  lights  beyond  would  indicate  those  of 
another  valley,  with  its  star-refle£ling  river. 
So  comprehensive  is  a  bird's-eye  view  that 
migration  has  nothing  marvellous  about  it. 
May  it  not  be,  too,  that  these  long  journeys 
are  commenced  in  daylight,  and  that  when 
great  elevation  is  reached  the  direction  at  the 
outset  can  be  readily  maintained  ?  A  bird 
does  not  fly  in  a  circle,  as  a  man  walks  when 
lost  in  the  woods.  When  fog  or  excessive 
cloudiness  is  encountered,  wandering  birds 


The  Changeful  Skies         29 

drop  to  the  earth,  as  is  shown  by  water-birds 
being  found  upon  our  upland  fields,  perhaps 
miles  from  their  accustomed  haunts. 

Whatever  the  time  of  year,  we  have  ex- 
cellent reasons  for  expelling  much  of  the 
sky,  and  should  not  let  our  eagerness  to  see 
the  objedls  there  from  close  at  hand  cause  us 
to  forget  from  whence  they  came.  Do  not 
tell  me  that  a  bird,  or  a  butterfly,  or  even  an 
inanimate  objeft,  is  but  a  wind-tossed  acci- 
dent. Do  I  not  know  it  ?  If  an  objeft  is 
seen  to  come  from  the  sky  above,  why  not 
at  least  endeavor  to  meet  it  in  mid-air  ?  By 
so  doing,  you  take  a  step  into  the  realms  of 
fancy.  Such  a  whim  deceives  no  one,  not 
even  the  self-ele&ed  professors  of  bird-lore. 
Some  fafts  without  fancy  are  as  repulsive  as 
birds  without  feathers,  and  the  world  is  not 
likely  to  suffer  because  of  other  views  than 
those  of  the  painfully  prosaic.  Dispute  this 
if  you  will ;  but  now 

"  There  is  a  light  cloud  by  the  moon, 
'Tis  passing,  and  'twill  pass  full  soon," 

and  to  it  I  would  rather  attend  than  listen  to 
any  argument. 


PASSING  OF  THE  BLUEBIRD 


IT  is  said  that  the  old-time  bluebird  is  be- 
coming extinft ;  that  the  blessed  blue- 
birds of  our  door-yards  and  rustic  arbors  are 
passing  away ;  that  the  rude  box  nailed  to 
the  wall  is  forsaken  or  the  home  of  alien 
sparrows ;  the  hollow  in  the  old  apple-tree 
is  unoccupied,  and  so  with  the  May-day 
blossoms  there  will  no  more  be  heard  that 
cheery  warbling,  comparable  only,  in  its 
suggestiveness,  to  the  tuneful  song  sparrow 
and  lively  chatter  of  the  nervous  wren. 
Until  recently  these  made  the  jolly  trio  that 
have  gladdened  our  gardens  since  Colonial 
days.  No  more  bluebirds !  Why  not  say 
there  shall  be  no  more  spring,  for  is  it  really 
spring  without  them  ? 

For  many  years,  perhaps  for  all  this  cen- 
tury, there  has  stood  a  huge  dead  sycamore 
on  the  river  bank,  and  in  the  hollow  of  its 
cavernous  trunk  bluebirds  are  wont  to  con- 
30 


Passing  of  the  Bluebird       31 

gregate.  The  tempests  of  winter,  the  floods 
of  spring,  even  the  lightning's  stroke,  scarcely 
make  these  trustful  bluebirds  afraid ;  or,  if 
they  flee  at  a  time  of  great  tumult,  they  soon 
return,  and  there  are  but  few  days  in  a  year 
that  I  cannot  see  and  hear  these  happy  ten- 
ants of  a  hollow  tree.  At  one  lonely  spot, 
alike  free  from  man  and  the  alien  sparrow, 
the  bluebird  is  still  as  fixed  a  feature  as  the 
blue  sky ;  but  the  tree  cannot  last  much 
longer,  and  then  the  birds  will  be  driven  to 
some  more  remote  locality.  The  times  have 
indeed  changed.  The  bluebirds  no  longer 
come  to  us, — we  must  go  to  them. 

Until  within  a  very  few  years,  there  was 
a  colony  of  bluebirds  near  my  house,  and 
however  the  conditions  of  the  weather  af- 
fefted  the  birds  found  scattered  over  the 
country,  here  to-day  and  gone  to-morrow, 
those  in  the  old  hay-barrack  were  never  far 
away.  I  do  not  believe  that  the  bluebird  is 
really  dying  out  through  natural  causes,  but 
simply  that  they  are  or  have  been  driven  off. 
The  fatal  blunder  was  the  introduction  of 
the  English  sparrow,  which  never  did  one 
particle  of  good,  and  now  has  become  a  posi- 
tive curse,  and  one,  I  fear,  beyond  control. 


32       Passing  of  the  Bluebird 

As  if  we  had  not  birds  enough  of  our  own 
to  keep  down  all  the  worms  that  ever  crawled 
on  a  tree  !  Why,  then,  did  they  not  do  it  ? 
it  has  been  asked  with  much  confidence,  but  a 
stinging  reply  lies  in  wait  for  the  questioner. 
We  would  not  let  them.  For  years  on  years 
there  was  absolute  indifference  in  the  matter 
of  bird-proteftion.  For  half  a  century  a 
law  has  been  upon  the  statute-books  with 
reference  to  the  destruction  of  insectivorous 
birds,  and  probably  not  enough  fines  have 
been  colle&ed  to  pay  for  the  printing  of  the 
law.  It  is  not  long  since  that  every  boy 
made  a  colle&ion  of  birds'  eggs  if  he  could, 
and  nests  and  eggs  are  openly  advertised  as 
for  sale  in  two-penny  periodicals  devoted  to 
the  destruction  of  wild-life,  under  the  catchy 
title  of  Natural  History  Journals.  In  times 
not  long  gone  by  were  many  ornithologists 
whose  influence  was  all  for  ill.  The  vague 
hope  of  a  new  species  being  found  led  them 
to  slaughter  the  most  familiar  birds  even  by 
the  thousands,  and,  even  in  these  more  en- 
lightened days,  a  professional  bird-man  has 
described  himself  as  "  a  slaughterer  of  the 
innocents."  It  would  really  seem  as  if  some 
ornithologists,  who  should  labor  only  for 


Passing  of  the  Bluebird       33 

bird-preservation,  are  really  the  bird's  worst 
foes  while  able  to  colleft,  and  then  in  their 
declining  years  shed  crocodile  tears  over  the 
skins  of  their  viftims.  Then,  too,  we  must 
consider  the  demand  for  feathers  for  millinery 
purposes.  At  last  the  enormity  of  this  vile 
fashion  is  beginning  to  touch  the  public  con- 
science, and  if  Audubon  societies  effeft  half 
the  good  at  which  they  aim,  they  will  prove 
one  of  the  more  notable  blessings  of  these 
later  days. 

But  let  us  go  back  to  the  haunts  of  the 
bluebirds,  even  if  deserted  just  now.  For 
the  first  time  in  over  twenty  years  I  have 
failed  to  see  and  hear  bluebirds  in  the  month 
of  May,  and  yet  every  other  species  common 
to  the  Delaware  valley  has  been  phenome- 
nally abundant.  Never  were  there  so  many 
warblers,  both  summer  residents  and  those 
that  were  northward  bound;  never  more 
thrushes,  more  rose-breasted  grosbeaks, 
vireos,  fly-catchers,  and  all  the  summer's 
tuneful  host, — but  no  bluebirds.  The  reason 
is  not  difficult  to  determine.  Every  available 
nesting-site,  such  as  formerly  was  occupied 
by  a  bluebird,  is  now  in  possession  of  the 
pestiferous  sparrow.  Happily,  they  find 


34       Passing  of  the  Bluebird 

their  superiors  at  times,  and  learn  a  useful 
lesson.  I  witnessed  a  combat  recently  be- 
tween a  pair  of  sparrows  and  a  great  crested 
fly-catcher.  The  nest  of  the  latter  had  been 
tampered  with,  but  the  sparrows  had  cause 
to  regret  their  impudence.  Not  only  was 
their  own  nest  destroyed,  but  both  the 
birds  soundly  thrashed.  There  was  a  great 
commotion  at  the  time  among  the  birds 
of  the  orchard,  and  if  the  varied  utter- 
ances of  a  dozen  species  could  be  translated 
we  should  have  some  most  interesting  read- 
ing. Scores  of  birds  witnessed  the  battle, 
and,  as  none  were  silent,  I  fancied  the 
sounds  to  be  comments  on  the  progress  of 
the  fray. 

The  little  house  wrens,  with  whom  blue- 
birds are  always  associated  in  our  minds, 
fare  better  than  their  one-time  companions. 
When  once  in  possession  of  their  homes 
they  prove  able  to  defend  them  successfully, 
and  I  do  not  find  these  cheerful  creatures 
less  abundant  than  formerly,  though  fewer 
are  found  nesting  in  the  immediate  vicinity 
of  dwellings.  They  have  been  inconveni- 
enced by  the  sparrows,  but  not  actually 
driven  out  of  whole  sedlions  of  the  country. 


Passing  of  the  Bluebird       35 

Our  efforts  should  be  redoubled  to  aid  the 
wren  whenever  persecuted,  and  this  is  a 
simple  matter.  By  keeping  their  boxes 
closed,  after  they  leave  us  in  autumn,  until 
their  reappearance  in  April,  we  will  prevent 
the  sparrows  from  taking  possession  in  their 
absence,  and  boxes  built  for  wrens  should 
have  the  entrance  too  small  for  a  sparrow  to 
pass  through  it.  By  such  simple  means  I 
have  baffled  the  worthless  foreigner,  and 
have  the  native  wrens  at  my  door  the  sum- 
mer through. 

There  being  no  more  tame  door-yard 
bluebirds,  I  have  spent  the  day  with  their 
wilder  brethren.  In  a  cluster  of  old  birches 
on  an  island  in  the  river  I  found  these  timid 
birds  dwelling  in  comparative  security. 
Their  nests  were  in  holes  deserted  years  ago 
by  golden-winged  woodpeckers,  and  no  foe 
but  a  man  or  a  snake — often  much  alike — 
could  have  reached  their  eggs  or  young. 
My  boat  drifted  to  the  sandy  beach,  and  I 
sat  very  still.  The  birds  paid  no  attention 
to  me,  and  their  singing  was  continuous.  I 
closed  my  eyes  for  a  while,  and,  while  listen- 
ing, saw  again  the  old  arbor  with  its  blue- 
bird-box at  the  entrance.  I  heard  the  songs 


36       Passing  of  the  Bluebird 

sung  fifty  years  ago,  and  saw  the  people  who 
were  then  nearest  to  me,  and  now 

"  All,  all  are  gone, — the  old,  familiar  faces." 

The  process  of  extinction,  inaugurated  by 
ignorant  men,  may  continue  to  the  end  in 
our  villages  and  about  the  average  farm- 
house, but  there  are  spots  where  its  blight 
cannot  reach,  and  the  literal  fulfilment  of 
the  bluebird's  doom  is  yet  afar  off.  There 
are  islands  and  hill-sides,  deep  ravines  and 
remote  woodland  tradls,  that  offer  no  attrac- 
tions to  the  invading  sparrow,  and  here  the 
bluebird  can  and  does  find  a  congenial  home. 
It  is  true  that  in  years  past  we  almost  domes- 
ticated it,  but  before  that,  in  Indian  times,  it 
was  a  bird  of  the  woods,  and  so  can  again 
become,  unless  our  forest  fires  do  away  with 
timbered  trafts.  The  passing  of  the  blue- 
bird is  no  empty  phrase,  but  the  passing  is 
not  that  of  out  of  existence,  but  out  of  reach. 
It  is  greatly  to  be  deplored,  but  there  seems 
to  be  no  help  for  it. 

And  now  the  question  arises,  Are  there  no 
other  birds  to  take  their  place  ?  I  think  so. 
By  consideration  for  their  welfare,  by  con- 
tributing to  their  needs,  by  preventing  their 


Passing  of  the  Bluebird       37 

being  molested,  the  warblers,  pee-wees, 
grosbeaks,  orioles,  and  others  will  come 
nearer  and  nearer  to  us.  I  am  positive  of 
this,  and  have  my  own  yard,  open  to  all,  as 
a  proof  of  my  assertion.  I  am  cultivating 
that  pretty  warbler,  the  redstart,  now,  and 
find  the  bird  extremely  entertaining.  It 
nests  very  near  the  house  and  shows  no  fear, 
merely  keeping  out  of  reach.  It  is  but  one 
of  many  kinds,  and,  though  without  a  song, 
it  is  never  silent,  and  by  reason  of  its  ac- 
tivity is  usually  more  in  evidence  than  many 
of  the  larger  species.  Like  all  little  birds, 
redstarts  are  "  feathered  appetites,"  and  eat- 
ing from  dawn  to  dark  seems  to  be  the  sole 
end  of  their  existence ;  but  what  does  this 
signify  to  us?  The  destruction  of  innu- 
merable insects,  the  health  of  shade  trees, 
the  perfecting  of  flowers.  Of  late  these 
birds  have  seemed  to  embody  every  bird- 
world  grace  and  typify  the  bird-life  that  is  or 
ought  to  be  about  us.  That  ought  to  be 
about  us :  how  much  of  meaning  in  those 
few  simple  words !  There  is  not  a  door- 
yard  but  should  be  a  safe  harbor  for  every 
bird  that  now  lives  a  life  of  doubtful  ease  in 
the  remoter  thickets.  The  fence  that  sep- 


38       Passing  of  the  Bluebird 

arates  field  from  garden  should  be  no  barrier, 
but  many  are  the  birds  that  look  upon  the 
paling  or  boards  as  a  danger  line  to  be  crossed 
with  the  utmost  caution.  In  far  more  than 
half  of  the  farms  I  ever  visited  I  was  com- 
pelled to  go  to  the  birds, — not  one  of  them 
would  come  to  me.  They  were  looked 
upon,  if  a  thought  was  ever  given  to  them,  as 
food  for  the  cats  or  sport  for  the  children,  to 
keep  them  from  mischief.  Can  there  be 
greater  mischief  than  that  wrought  by  the 
persecution  and  destruction  of  the  birds  that 
ought  to  be  about  us  ? 

Though  the  songs  of  a  thousand  birds  ring 
through  the  leafy  arches  of  old  woods,  and 
many  a  familiar  strain  steals  through  the 
open  window  these  long  summer  days,  there 
comes  with  them,  all  too  surely,  a  tinge  of 
sadness  that  one  of  the  merry  host  is  miss- 
ing, and  not  a  melancholy  thrush  or  warbling 
vireo  but  seems  to  be  voicing  its  own  sorrow 
or  echoing  ours  at  the  passing  away  of  the 
bluebirds  of  blessed  memory. 


IN  APATHETIC  AUGUST 


THE  air  is  ever  full  of  meaning  sounds, 
but  are  our  heads  full  of  wit  to  interpret 
them  ?  Can  there  be  an  unmeaning  sound, — 
mere  noise  without  significance  ?  I  think 
not.  It  is  August  now,  and  there  is  a  marked 
lull  in  the  flood  of  bird-music  that  for  months 
has  overswept  the  fields.  The  dew — for  the 
sun  has  just  risen — still  weighs  heavily  upon 
the  grass,  and  there  is  no  lively  creaking  yet 
of  the  heat-defying  crickets.  But  I  press  my 
ear  lightly  to  the  cool  ground,  and  there  is 
plainly  heard  the  steady  hum  of  many  activ- 
ities, albeit  there  is  no  name  for  any  one 
of  them.  The  quiet  earth  is  busy  as  a  bee, 
yet  there  is  no  sign  of  her  labors ;  none,  at 
least,  save  the  low  uninterrupted  sound  that 
only  those  who  listen  most  carefully  can 
hear.  An  unnoticed,  all-neglefted  sound, 
but  not  unmeaning.  We  lack  the  power  of 
its  interpretation,  that  is  all,  and  fling  at  it 

39 


40         In  Apathetic  August 

such  a  word  as  "  unmeaning,"  as  if  we  were 
lords  of  creation  and  not  creation  lord  of  us. 
Nature  has  little  patience  with  mere  fuss  and 
feathers.  If  there  is  a  great  noise,  there  is  a 
great  cause  behind  it.  We  can  publish  our 
own  littleness  by  pleading  inability  to  ex- 
plain the  events  of  a  passing  day,  but  be  cau- 
tious of  criticism  of  superior  power.  Yet  it 
is  as  bad  to  underestimate  our  strength.  We 
often  can  do  more  than  we  think  lies  within 
our  powers.  We  can  learn  more  than  our 
neighbors  if  we  adopt  better  methods,  nor 
fall  by  the  way  because  so  many  gems  of 
truth  are  in  a  matrix  from  which  no  human 
patience  can  extraft  them.  Have  we  culti- 
vated our  patience  until  it  has  acquired  the 
acme  of  its  possible  growth  ? 

How  very  silent  is  this  August  morning ! 
yet  but  a  slight  change  in  position,  and  I 
find  it  sound-full.  Be  not  deceived  by  ap- 
pearances. How  deserted  the  woods  and 
meadows,  hill-side  and  upland  fields !  Are 
they  ?  Your  eyes  may  be  more  at  fault  than 
you  suspect,  and  while  you  step  so  firmly 
forward  you  may  really  be  playing  blind- 
man's-buff  with  the  landscape.  As  I  pass  it 
by  a  field  sparrow  rises  from  his  feast  of  seeds 


Apathetic  August 


40         In  Apathetic  August 

.!  word  as  "  unmeaning,"  as  if  we  were 
lords  of  creation  and  not  creation  lord  of  us. 
Nature  has  little  patience  with  mere  fuss  and 
feathers.  If  there  is  a  great  noise,  there  is  a 
great  cause  behind  it.  We  can  publish  our 
own  littleness  by  pleading  inability  to  ex- 
plain the  events  of  a  passing  day,  but  be  cau- 
tious of  criticism  of  superior  power.  Yet  it 
is  as  bad  to  underestimate  our  strength.  We 
often  can  do  more  than  we  think  lies  within 
our  powers.  We  can  learn  more  than  our 
neighbors  if  we  adopt  ber.tr-  Is,  nor 

fall  by  the  way  because  so  many  gems  of 
truth  are  in  a  matrix  from  which  no  human 
patience  can  extract  them.  Have  we  culti- 
vated our  patience  until  it  has  acquired  the 
acme  of  its  possible  growth  ? 

How  very  silent  is  this  August  morning  I 
yet  but  a  slight  change  in  position,  and  I 
find  it  sound-full.  Be  not  deceived  by  ap- 
pearances. How  deserted  the  woods  and 
meadows,  hill-side  and  upland  fields  I  Are 
they  ?  Your  eyes  may  be  more  at  fault  than 
you  suspect,  and  while  you  step  so  firmly 
forward  you  may  really  be  playing  blind- 
man's-buff  with  the  landscape.  As  I  pass  it 
by  a  field  sparrow  rises  from  his  feast  of  seeds 


In  Apathetic  August        41 

with  leisure  wing, — beats  and  trills  in  a  listless 
way  when  perched  upon  a  proje&ing  stake 
of  the  old  fence.  It  is  August,  the  bird 
plainly  intimates  by  its  manner,  and  watches 
me  come  and  go  with  far  more  indifference 
than  distrust.  Even  the  activity  born  of  fear 
is  out  of  place  during  the  last  month  of 
summer.  The  sparrow's  few  and  feeble 
notes  fall  into  the  deep  rut  into  which  all 
August  activities  have  run  these  many  centu- 
ries, and  the  listener,  with  ears  as  languid  as 
his  laggard  steps,  hears  them  only  with  Au- 
gust indifference.  To  think  that  bird  music 
and  the  rustling  of  leaves  are  now  akin. 
Has  this  sinking  to  a  soulless  level  aftually 
taken  place  ?  How  far  are  we  at  fault  ? 
This  same  wee  sparrow  caused  a  bounding 
pulse  last  April.  Then  there  was  an  eleftric 
thrill  in  every  trembling  note  that  sounded 
an  invitation  to  the  fields  that  could  not  be 
refused;  to  April  fields  with  little  more 
than  green  grass  skirting  the  newly  ploughed 
ground;  grass,  most  meagrely  dotted  with 
violets  that  shrank  from  every  breeze,  and 
now  this  same  bird  song  rouses  no  emotion. 
Who  or  what  turns  the  current  off  and 
leaves  us  as  much  dead  as  alive  in  August  ? 


42         In  Apathetic  August 

Some  malign  spirit  long  ago  undermined  our 
faith  in  the  merits  of  the  month,  and  no  one 
has  had  energy  since  to  rebuild  it. 

The  resolution  to  be  up  and  doing  is 
very  brilliant  when  a  suggestion  to  others, 
but  how  dull  it  becomes  when  a  personal 
application !  It  borders  on  the  heroic  to 
take  up  a  burden  in  August,  and  I  was  no 
further  than  thinking  of  the  matter  when 
a  quail  whistled  at  my  side.  That  clear, 
ringing,  fife-like  "  Bob-white"  proved  the 
bell-call  that  rang  up  the  curtain  of  my 
eyes.  After  all,  it  was  I  that  had  been 
asleep,  and  not  Mother  Earth  taking  an 
August  nap. 

That  little  sparrow  has  a  new  song  now. 
Every  note  comes  bounding  over  the  weedy 
grass,  light-footed  as  an  April  sunbeam.  The 
bird  has  quickened  its  pace,  and  marks  my 
progress  now  with  an  eager  eye.  There  is 
no  indifference  as  to  how  the  world  may 
wag,  and  I,  too,  am  prodded  to  a  livelier  in- 
terest. "Bob-white!"  rings  again  through 
the  clear  air,  and  I  am  thrilled  by  its  ear- 
nestness. Then  come  the  rustling  of  many 
wings  and  sound  of  many  voices, — a  flock 
of  red-winged  blackbirds  passes  overhead. 


In  Apathetic  August         43 

As  it  proves,  life  has  simply  been  turned 
into  a  new  channel,  and  I  have  been  wan- 
dering up  and  down  the  dry  bed  of  the 
spring-tide  river.  April  and  August  are  as 
far  apart  as  the  poles.  These  dreamy,  lazy, 
apathetic  August  days  are  far  more  so  in 
name  than  in  faft ;  the  trouble  is  with  our- 
selves. 

Following  in  the  wake  of  the  departing 
blackbirds,  I  hurry,  aftually  hurry,  to  the 
meadows.  What  though  the  catbirds  enter 
a  complaint !  They  must  be  patient  at  the 
intrusion,  even  as  I  am — sometimes — when 
dull  neighbors  call.  There  is  room  enough 
for  them  and  myself,  but  they  will  not  think 
sp.  In  this  respeft  man  has  a  good  deal  of 
the  catbird  nature.  I  followed  the  black- 
birds in  a  general  way  over  the  pastures  and 
through  many  a  tangle  of  fruit-laden  black- 
berries. It  was  not  necessary  there  should 
be  a  goal.  The  novelty  of  August  activity 
was  a  sufficient  incentive.  When  I  came  to 
a  stand-still  in  the  shade  of  an  old  sassafras, 
I  found  a  red-eyed  vireo  quite  excited  over 
my  presence,  and  a  short  search  showed  me 
that  its  nest  was  not  yet  empty.  The  poor 
bird's  babies  overfilled  the  nest,  and  in  a  few 


44         In  Apathetic  August 

days  they  will  be  gone.  Not  gone,  I  hope, 
into  the  jaws  of  some  prowling  mink,  for  I 
caught  a  glimpse  of  one  while  hunting  for 
the  nest.  Indeed,  this  blood-thirsty  imp, 
and  not  myself,  may  have  been  the  cause  of 
the  bird's  distress.  It  is  interesting  to  note 
what  a  cover  for  wild-life  is  provided  by  an 
unchecked  growth  of  weeds.  No  tropical 
jungle  could  be  more  dense  than  that  of 
sturdy  growths  through  which  I  struggled  as 
I  came  here.  The  tall  sassafras  by  which  I 
stand  reaches  upward  from  a  clean  grassy 
knoll  like  the  mast  from  the  deck  of  a  ship, 
but  all  above  me  are  weeds,  breast-high  and 
pathless.  No  cow,  even,  has  broken  her 
way  through  them,  and  where  I  passed  is 
only  shown  by  a  dark  line  where  the  dew 
was  brushed  away.  In  such  a  tangle  a  mink, 
or  even  a  larger  creature,  finds  safe  quarters 
through  the  summer.  In  faft,  a  whole  regi- 
ment of  vermin  might  take  refuge  here  and 
defy  detection.  Perhaps,  it  has  been  thought, 
such  places  are  the  slums  of  wild-life ;  but 
has  wild-life  any  degraded  and  ignoble  forms? 
How  common  to  find  absurd  impressions  as 
to  the  phases  of  wild-life  that  are  uncouth  in 
our  eyes !  Snakes,  lizards,  and  snapping-tur- 


In  Apathetic  August         45 

ties,  for  instance.  Their  very  names  cause  a 
shudder ;  but  why  ?  The  question  is  seldom 
asked.  Their  deviltry  is  taken  for  granted. 
But  those  things  that  we  ordinarily  call  ugly 
and  shun,  because  hideous  in  our  eyes  and 
suggestive  of  all  that  is  to  be  avoided  for 
peace  of  mind  if  not  for  safety  of  the  body, 
really  possess  little  if  anything  of  the  feat- 
ures our  ignorance  attributes  to  them. 
Omitting  to  see  the  fitness  to  their  surround- 
ings of  the  creatures  in  question,  we  are 
ignorant,  and  must  remain  so,  of  much  of 
which,  had  we  better  knowledge  of  it,  would 
afford  us  endless  pleasure.  An  imprisoned 
snapper  in  a  restaurant-window  rouses  no 
interest,  and  may  excite  disgust,  as  it  clum- 
sily moves  to  and  fro  in  hopes  of  finding  a 
path  to  liberty.  But  meet  this  creature  in 
the  marsh  and  attempt  to  dispute  its  passage, 
you  will  then  be  forced  to  admire  its  bravery, 
and  it  will  dawn  upon  you  how  admirably 
does  its  brown  shell,  with  adhering  bits  of 
mud  and  weeds,  blend  with  the  beaten  paths 
of  its  nightly  rambles ;  or,  if  you  are  stand- 
ing by  open  water  and  should  see  this  same 
turtle  lift  its  head  above  the  surface,  and  you 
have  a  good  look  at  its  brilliant  but  devilish 


46         In  Apathetic  August 

eyes,  or  see  it  with  open  jaws  in  which  is 
struggling  a  writhing,  squealing,  slippery  black 
catfish,  you  will  realize  that  marsh,  mud, 
weeds,  dark  pools  of  stagnant  water,  snap- 
pers, snakes,  catfish,  and  scuttle-bugs  are  an 
admirably  blended  whole.  As  separate  entU 
ties  you  may  pass  them  by  unheeded,  but  not 
when  associated  and  Nature  is  the  artist  that 
has  drawn  the  pidlure. 

I  have  long  preached  no  other  do£lrine 
than  that  of  an  apathetic  August,  but  it  is  all 
a  myth.  Would  that  other  preachers  would 
be  as  honest  in  their  convictions,  though 
they  be  as  changeable  as  weather-cocks. 
There  is  no  real  cessation  of  aflivity.  Life 
has  merely  retired  from  the  outskirts  of  crea- 
tion, and  bids  us  plunge  into  the  interior  if 
we  would  still  be  spectators.  Looking  out 
from  the  knoll — for  I  still  lingered  in  the 
shade  of  the  old  sassafras — there  was  literally 
nothing  to  be  seen  above  or  about  the  weeds 
except  great  bronze  and  green  dragon-flies. 
But  if  these  were  there,  other  forms  of  life 
must  also  have  been  present.  Dragon-flies 
do  not  feed  on  flowery  sweets.  Butterflies, 
too,  tossed  themselves  ecstatically  about,  and 
clicked  their  pretty  wings  when  angry ;  but 


In  Apathetic  August         47 

not  all  the  insefts  of  a  summer  day  ever  filled 
a  landscape  with  life.  Something  more  sub- 
stantial for  the  earlier  courses  of  a  rambler's 
feast  of  sight-seeing  is  called  for, — some  bird 
or  beast  that  can  fill  a  weightier  part.  I  had 
seen  a  brown  mink,  but  his  was  too  brief  a 
stay ;  but  what  was  needed  came  in  all-suffi- 
cient fulness  when  a  troop  of  great  blue 
herons  settled  near  by.  I  shouted  and  ges- 
ticulated until  they  flew  again.  Their  star- 
tled antics  in  the  air  are  always  such  an 
improvement  over  their  indifferent  pose 
when  standing  on  the  ground.  These  birds 
are  too  dignified  for  my  fancy.  They,  too, 
forcibly  remind  me  of  a  class  of  men  that  I 
never  meet  but  I  endeavor  to  disconcert 
them.  To  upset  dignity  is  a  delightful  pas- 
time, especially  when  this  dignity  is  an  ill- 
fitting  assumption,  as  is  so  generally  the  case. 
Therefore  it  is  I  am  moved  to  throw  stones 
at  standing  herons,  that  I  may  watch  them 
gradually  disentangle  their  wings  and  legs  in 
the  upper  air.  But,  when  settled  down  to 
steady,  purposeful  flight,  these  birds  add  a 
splendid  feature  to  the  meadow  landscape. 
A  little  more  vim  on  our  part;  a  few  miles 
more  of  tramping ;  earlier  hours  and  a  deal 


48         In  Apathetic  August 

more  faith  that  we  have  not  been  deserted, 
and  full  to  overflowing  will  prove  every  one 
of  these  miscalled  and  much-maligned  apa- 
thetic August  days. 


A  FORETASTE  OF  AUfUMN 


TO  the  docile  eye  a  meadow  spring  can 
furnish  a  tide  of  discourse*  I  chanced 
upon  a  sloping  bank  to-day,  brilliant  as  a 
garden  tilled  with  care.  Nature  at  times  is 
a  fantastic  florist.  Yellow,  red,  and  white 
blooms  were  profusely  scattered  in  the  rank 
grass,  yet  free  of  all  rough,  weedy  character. 
The  bees  hummed  no  less  happily  because 
positive  wilderness  was  lacking,  and  the 
cricket's  cheery  chirping  rang  out  as  gladly 
as  where  the  tangled  briers  hid  what  remained 
of  a  long-negle£ted  fence.  Here  I  might 
have  gathered  strawberries  a  month  ago,  and 
raspberries  later,  for  this  spot  had  once  been 
a  garden,  I  am  more  than  sure ;  there  still 
is  a  trace  of  a  boxwood  hedge.  The  canes 
of  the  raspberries  were  richly  colored,  and 
would  have  warmed  the  landscape  had  it  not 
been  an  August  day.  They  sprawled  over 
the  ground  and  looked  like  gigantic  purple 
4  49 


50      A  Foretaste  of  Autumn 

spiders  with  their  long,  limp  legs  at  rest ;  or 
like  the  after-scene  of  a  great  battle  among 
such  creatures,  their  brilliant  purple  legs, 
victors  and  vanquished  alike,  in  a  hopeless 
tangle.  I  have  often  noticed  a  scarcely 
defined  purple  cloud  along  the  horizon, — in- 
deed, it  is  seldom  absent  on  sunny  days, — 
but  here  were  the  richest  tones  of  the  royal 
color  near  at  hand. 

But  I  was  not  on  a  color  hunt,  nor  yet  de- 
sirous of  much  bird  music ;  neither  did  the 
shade  of  sturdy  oaks  woo  me.  Nothing  that 
suggested  even  active  thoughts  could  induce 
me  to  turn  from  my  pathless,  aimless  wan- 
dering. August  now,  and  the  fittest  time  for 
day-dreams,  for  chasing  idle  nothings  in  a 
languid  way,  for  loitering  where  my  last  step 
led  me,  and,  turning  to  the  object  nearest  at 
hand,  I  plucked  the  bloom  from  a  bush  yar- 
row, and  revelled  in  its  pungent,  fancy-stir- 
ring odor. 

Curled  at  the  foot  of  a  beech,  where  only 
greenest  moss  and  silky  grasses  grow,  I  held 
the  yarrow  blossoms  to  my  nose  until  my 
lungs  were  filled  with  the  subtle  odor  that 
revived  all  my  waning  energies.  It  is  not  a 
summer  scent  that  recalls  June  roses  or  the 


A  Foretaste  of  Autumn      51 

blossoms  of  fruit-trees.  It  is  heavy,  rich, 
penetrating;  a  nut-like,  oily,  autumn  odor 
that  charges  the  landscape ;  a  transporting 
perfume  that  blots  out  the  present  and  pic~l- 
ures  the  future  without  its  blemishes ;  gives 
us  the  spirit  of  autumn  and  veils  its  frost- 
scarred  body.  The  bloom  of  the  yarrow  is 
as  potent  as  the  fruit  of  the  fabled  lotus. 

Has  not  the  landscape  changed  ?  It  is 
August,  and  the  first  day  of  it,  too,  and  yet, 
with  yarrow  blossoms  in  my  hand,  I  do  not 
see  so  much  of  summer  as  I  did.  The  tow- 
ering shellbarks  that  like  sentinels  stand  out 
upon  the  meadows,  the  hill-side  walnuts,  the 
wayside  chestnut,  and  even  the  shy  hazel- 
bushes  hidden  along  the  wild  brook's  weedy 
bank, — all  these  must  be  ladened  with  ripened 
fruit,  I  fancy.  It  is  crisp  October,  with  its 
painted  leaves,  to-day,  not  August;  such  is 
the  magic  of  the  yarrow  bloom. 

Is  it  all  fancy  ?  What  I  did  not  see  before 
is  plainly  set  before  me  now.  There  on  that 
gnarly  sour-gum  tree,  scattered  all  over  it, 
from  topmost  twig  to  its  lowest  trailing 
branches,  are  bright  crimson  leaves.  That 
surely  is  a  sign  of  autumn.  No  frost-ripened 
foliage,  later,  will  shine  with  greater  glory, 


52       A  Foretaste  of  Autumn 

and  beyond,  where  the  rank  weeds  have  held 
their  own  against  the  cropping  cows  that 
have  tramped  through  them  all  summer,  is 
that  wealth  of  dull  gold,  the  trailing  dodder, 
a  gilded  web  of  a  gigantic  spider, — the  one 
with  purple  legs,  perhaps,  that  we  saw  not 
far  off  this  very  day.  This,  too,  is  an  au- 
tumnal plant  in  its  suggestions :  its  color  like 
the  leaves  of  oaks  and  beeches  when  the  cool 
nights  come.  So  much  in  this  world  is  what 
it  suggests  rather  than  what  it  really  is ! 
With  what  horror  would  we  look  upon  the 
world  if  it  was  merely  fafts  jumbled  and 
tumbled  together  like  a  load  of  bricks  dumped 
from  the  cart.  I  have  in  mind  such  an  un- 
fortunate who  is  zealously  digging  for  what 
he  supposes  is  never  upon  the  surface.  Never 
a  pebble  but  is  a  pebble  only  to  him  and  not 
a  water-worn  fragment  of  a  great  rock  forma- 
tion. And  what,  after  all,  are  these  naked 
fads  to  him  who  cannot  use  them  ?  My 
friend  has  hedged  himself  in  with  fafts.  He 
has  built  a  stone  wall  about  him  that  his 
ignorance  cannot  stray,  and  in  such  a  funny 
predicament  he  poses  as  an  apostle  of  wis- 
dom. No  fafts  without  fancy,  if  you  please. 
They  will  do  to  dash  out  your  brains  with, 


A  Foretaste  of  Autumn      53 

but  rather  let  death  come  uninvited,  and 
every  faft  remain  clothed  and  in  its  right 
mind  of  fanciful  interpretation.  It  is  a  safe 
course,  for  no  healthy  fancy  ever  yet  proved 
seriously  mistaken ;  but  what  of  many  a 
dealer  in  naked  fadts  ? 

How  true  this  is  of  birds !  There  are 
anatomists  who  map  the  wrinkles  on  a  bird's 
bones,  measure  their  eggs,  and  write  learned 
essays  on  browny-white  and  whitey-brown, 
who  are  all  impatience  when  an  amateur 
speaks  of  a  living  bird.  The  professionals 
are  never  mistaken,  oh,  no  !  but  they  only  tell 
us  half  the  truth.  They  are  content  with 
their  soulless  anatomy,  and  let  them  ;  but  the 
despised  amateur  has  another  mission,  and 
long  before  the  crack  o*  doom,  if  not  now, 
will  be  held  in  higher  esteem  than  many  an 
over-presumptuous,  self-elected,  carping  pro- 
fessor of  avian  anatomy. 

The  almanac  gives  me  no  concern  when  I 
flourish  yarrow-blooms  about  me.  My  nose 
is  on  duty,  not  my  eyes,  to-day,  and  why 
have  this  much-negle£led  sense  of  smell  if 
we  put  it  to  no  better  use  than  as  a  guide  to 
lead  us  from  unpleasant  places  ?  How  few 
people  detect  the  subtle  odors  distilled  by 


54      A  Foretaste  of  Autumn 

nature  in  every  field  and  forest,  by  the  wide 
river  or  its  skirting  meadows !  Yet  these 
odors  are  full  of  significance  the  student  can- 
not afford  to  overlook.  They  are  many  and 
marked  and  full  of  meaning.  If  I  were 
blind,  I  think  I  could  make  many  a  clever 
guess  as  to  the  date  and,  perhaps,  the  time 
of  day.  Much  is  lost  if  we  are  sensitive 
only  to  the  malodorous  waves  of  tainted  air 
that  at  times  cross  our  paths  as  fleeting 
shadows  dim  the  bright  light  of  day. 

I  take  my  fill  again  of  the  fragrance  of 
yarrow,  and  in  doing  so  anticipate  the  coming 
autumn.  Much  of  the  prosy  side  of  life  is 
given  over  to  anticipation.  Why  not  some 
of  its  pleasanter  phases  ?  There  is  little  real 
attractiveness  in  an  August  day.  It  is  the 
old  age  of  summer,  and  not  a  very  vigorous, 
cheerful  old  age  either.  Did  I  look  straight 
before  me  and  see  nothing  but  a  green  land- 
scape bathed  in  dreamy  sunshine,  I  should 
grow  as  stolid  as  these  huge  trunks  about  me 
are  sturdy  and  unmoved.  The  yarrow  sug- 
gests the  changes  that  are  coming;  as  if 
Autumn  in  advance  had  stored  her  sweetness 
in  this  wayside  weed,  and  so  it  is  autumn  to 
all  my  senses.  The  eye  and  nose  have  led 


A  Foretaste  of  Autumn      55 

me  until  now,  and  now  my  ears  catch  faint, 
far-off  sounds,  as  if  I  heard  in  the  distance 
Autumn's  light  footsteps.  Mere  fancy  counts 
for  nothing  now.  It  is  not  one  sound  sug- 
gesting another,  but  the  real  thing.  The 
thrushes  of  the  early  morning  have  long 
been  silent,  the  catbirds  are  not  complaining, 
the  wood  peewee  is  even  too  busy  just  now 
to  sing,  and  so  it  would  be  silent  here  were 
there  not  noisy  nuthatches  overhead.  They 
are  climbing  over  the  rough  bark,  and  as 
they  peep  into  the  innumerable  crannies 
they  are  chattering  incessantly.  This  is  a 
wholesome  autumn  sound,  heard  often  when 
its  only  accompaniment  is  the  dropping  of 
dead  leaves ;  and  yet  this  August  day  it  over- 
tops all  other  sounds  save  the  rapid  rush  of 
water  over  the  pebbles  and  boulders  in  the 
bed  of  the  brook.  We  must  close  our  eyes 
to  realize  the  full  significance  of  these  autumn 
notes  of  resident  birds.  The  landscape  must 
rest  on  our  memory,  and  not  upon  the  retina. 
That  querulous  refrain  belongs  to  drearier 
days  than  these,  even  to  November  and  its 
fogs  and  pitiless  rains.  It  is  an  all-pervading 
sound  then,  and  fits  well  with  the  surround- 
ings, and  the  August  sunshine  to-day  does 


56      A  Foretaste  of  Autumn 

not  shut  off  the  fog  and  rain  when  I  close 
my  eyes  and  listen  to  the  nuthatches  over- 
head. But  other,  birds  pass  by,  birds  that 
have  learned  all  the  merits  of  my  lifelong 
haunts  and  keep  me  company  throughout  the 
year.  There  in  the  near-by  thicket  is  that 
never-failing  source  of  cheerfulness,  the  Caro- 
lina wren.  When  the  world  wore  its  most 
deserted,  worn-out  look,  last  winter,  this 
wren  came  every  morning  and  sang  a  new 
soul  into  the  wasting  skeletons  of  every 
weed.  The  bare  twigs  trembled  with  the 
joy  of  a  new-found  faith,  that  spring  would 
surely  come  again  and  clothe  them  anew  with 
bright  green  leaves.  When  early  summer's 
tuneful  host  fills  the  warm  air  with  melody, 
we  are  all  too  apt  to  forget  the  brave  winter 
birds  ;  but,  happily,  they  do  not  forget  them- 
selves. It  was  so  to-day.  The  wren  found 
the  world  too  quiet  for  its  fancy  and  awoke 
the  sleepy  echoes.  It  sounded  a  challenge  to 
all  drowsiness  and  banished  noontide  naps 
from  the  hill-side.  Like  the  odor  of  the 
yarrow,  it  called  up  other  days,  another  sea- 
son with  its  wealth  of  fruits,  and  how  the 
nuts  and  apples  of  Odlober  fell  about  me  as 
I  listened  to  its  wonderful  song,  the  same 


A  Foretaste  of  Autumn      57 

that  I  have  heard  these  many  years,  when 
the  thrushes  have  departed  and  not  a  warbler 
is  left  of  the  nesting  host  that  thronged  the 
blossoming  orchard. 

However  sultry  the  midsummer  day,  a 
whiff  of  yarrow  carries  us  forward  to  the 
coming  coolness  of  September  mornings. 
However  quiet  the  midsummer  moon,  let 
but  a  single  note  fall  from  a  winter  songster, 
and  frosty  Oftober  is  spread  about  us.  In 
short,  if  we  have  not  smothered  our  fancy 
in  our  rage  for  fafts,  be  summer  what  it  may, 
it  never  conceals  from  those  who  know 
where  to  look  the  secret  of  conjuring  up  at 
will  delightful,  reviving,  faith-sustaining  fore- 
tastes of  autumn. 


INDIAN  SUMMER 


OSSAMER  and  old  gold  ;  brown  leaves, 
V-T  bleached  grasses,  and  gray  twigs  ;  green 
pines,  that  now  look  black  in  the  distance, 
and  frost-defying  mosses ;  such  are  the  salient 
features  of  this  bright  November  day.  I  am 
in  a  new  country  and  at  every  step  am  met 
by  strangers,  but  I  know  their  cousins  that 
are  dwellers  with-me  on  the  home  hill-side. 
To  feel  that  I  am  a  stranger  robs  the  world 
of  half  its  beauty.  I  cannot  rid  myself  of 
the  repressing  thought ;  but,  if  a  stranger  to- 
day, I  am  fortunately  alone,  and  that  com- 
pensates for  much ;  alone  to-day  in  a  wild- 
wood  road,  and  it  is  now  Indian  summer. 

It  is  a  long,  narrow  roadway,  with  a  deep 
ditch  on  each  side  and  no  special  side  path 
for  the  pedestrian.  It  is  assumed  by  the 
travelling  community  that  two  vehicles  never 
meet,  and  the  man  on  foot  who  meets  a 
wagon  must  jump  into  the  thicket  that  hems 
58 


Indian  Summer  59 

him  in  or  be  run  over.  So  it  seemed,  at 
least,  until  the  unexpe&ed  wagon  did  appear, 
when  I  found  the  problem  might  be  solved 
by  climbing  over,  but  I  preferred  jumping, 
the  ditch,  and  did  so.  The  teamster,  as  he 
passed,  hailed  me  with  "  What  you  lost  ?" 
and  set  me  down  as  a  liar  when  I  told  him 
"  Nothing."  No  one  could  be  in  such  a 
place  without  an  errand,  so  he  thought,  and 
I  had  no  gun  to  suggest  the  hunter.  But  I 
had  an  errand,  and  before  the  day  was  done 
found  I  had  lost  much  in  not  having  come  to 
this  wildwood  road  years  ago. 

Thoreau  has  said,  "  Nature  gets  thumbed 
like  an  old  spelling-book,"  but  by  how  many  ? 
Carry  fringed  gentian  to  town,  and  by  the 
gaping  crowd  you  will  be  thought  to  have 
plucked  it  from  some  garden  enclosure  or 
found  a  hothouse  door  unlocked.  I  am  sur- 
prised at  Thoreau's  remark  the  more  because 
my  path  has  so  seldom  led  me  among  these 
asserted  familiars  of  the  out-door  world.  On 
the  contrary,  how  all-prevalent  is  ignorance 
and  unusual  is  earth-knowledge  !  To  be  of 
the  earth  earthy  is  beyond  question  pre- 
eminently desirable,  and  yet  how  generally 
we  study  to  keep  clear  of  it,  lest  the  black 


60  Indian  Summer 

soil  may  spot  our  clothing,  or,  sinking  deeper, 
stain  the  immaculate  whiteness  of  our  igno- 
rance. Nature  is  like  a  spelling-book,  as 
Thoreau  has  suggested,  but  put  our  spelling- 
book  in  the  hands  of  a  Hottentot  and  what 
does  he  find  ?  We  are  too  generally  Hot- 
tentots in  this  regard  ;  adepts  at  misinterpre- 
tation, or,  fearing  a  lurking  devil  in  every 
shadow,  huddle  in  the  glaring  light  and  dis- 
tort every  straight  line  and  rob  of  beauty 
every  one  with  a  graceful  curve.  The  pages 
of  nature's  spelling-book  may  be  smeared, 
rumpled,  and  dog's-eared, — too  often  they 
are, — but  how  often  are  they  seriously  stud- 
ied ?  We  hold  it  upside  down,  or  study  the 
title-page  and  turn  away,  posing  as  philoso- 
phers. It  is  well  to  dig,  but  all  the  bones 
in  a  quarry  will  not  make  a  naturalist  of  you 
if  they  are  merely  bones,  and  the  mind's  eye 
cannot  see  them  reclothed  in  the  flesh.  This 
is  thumbing  the  book  and  never  learning  to 
spell  even  a-b,  ab.  So  far  Thoreau  was 
right.  But  this  is  Indian  summer  and  no 
time  to  preach  or  grumble,  but  to  meditate. 
This  golden  renaissance  will  teach  you  a 
great  deal  upon  one  condition :  you  must  be 
passive  and  let  the  knowledge  come  to  you. 


Indian  Summer  61 

Indian  summer  is  timid.  Her  efforts  to  re- 
clothe  the  earth  with  gladness  are  not  free 
from  doubt.  Every  ray  of  reviving  sunshine 
is  on  the  alert  lest  it  be  attacked  by  lurking 
north  winds.  Few  birds  in  November  sing 
with  a  May-day  confidence,  but  they  do  sing, 
and  this  passing  hour  I  have  seen  seventeen 
different  species  of  birds,  and,  except  in  two 
cases,  several  individuals  of  each  species,  and 
not  for  one  second  has  there  been  silence. 
At  least  the  crows  were  to  be  heard,  and 
what  a  hearty,  whole-souled  chatter  theirs  is  ! 
The  subject  under  discussion  by  them  is  sel- 
dom to  be  determined,  but  now  they  are 
scolding  at  a  hawk  that  has  sailed  by,  and  it 
heeds  them  but  little.  A  mere  dip  of  the 
wing  and  this  master  of  flight  is  above  or 
below  its  tormentors,  or,  with  a  quick  move- 
ment of  both  wings,  it  rushes  far  beyond  the 
crows,  and  now  is  heard  a  wild,  triumphant 
cry  that  thrills  me  to  the  very  finger-tips. 
But  not  all  the  world's  life  is  now  in  the 
upper  air.  There  are  birds  as  much  at 
home  in  the  bushes  as  are  hawks  in  the 
clouds,  and  I  turn  to  them  at  their  invitation, 
but  as  quickly  bid  them  adieu  when  sounds 
that  smack  of  novelty  fill  the  air.  The  genial 


62  Indian  Summer 

sunshine  has  warmed  the  quiet  waters  by  the 
wood  road,  and  all  the  chill  has  left  the 
broad  patches  of  gray-green  sphagnum,  and 
now  the  chorus  of  a  hundred  frogs  recalls  the 
like  warm  days  of  early  April  when  I  wan- 
der to  the  meadows.  I  can  scarcely  deteft 
these  frogs,  however  closely  I  look.  They 
still  cling  suspiciously  close  to  mother  earth, 
but  from  their  doubting  throats  rises  a  thanks- 
giving that  floats  away  like  a  misty  cloud 
and  dies  in  the  silence  of  the  upper  air. 
Again  and  again  I  hear  it,  and  then  the 
trembling  leafless  twigs  and  rattle  of  frost- 
defying  leaves  gives  warning  that  the  sun- 
shine has  met  its  old  enemy,  the  wind,  and 
the  frogs  sink  back  to  their  hidden  homes. 

Were  it  not  for  floating  masses  of  thick, 
white  clouds  that  shut  out  the  warmth  for 
the  moment  there  would  be  even  more  contin- 
uous sound  these  late  autumn  days.  Every- 
thing seems  to  depend  upon  it.  I  have  often 
noticed  how  quickly  a  bird  will  cease  to 
sing  the  moment  it  is  in  the  shade  and  how 
promptly  it  resumed  its  song  when  the  bright 
sun-rays  fell  upon  it.  It  is  really,  I  think,  a 
matter  of  warmth  rather  than  the  amount  of 
light,  but  during  uniformly  cloudy  days  there 


Indian  Summer  63 

is  less  disposition  to  sing  than  when  the 
weather  is  bright.  In  short,  take  the  year 
through,  it  is  a  matter  of  silence  in  shadows 
and  melody  in  the  sunlit  air.  While  still 
lingering  by  the  wayside  pool  and  watching 
a  slight  ripple  on  the  still  surface,  a  turtle 
popped  its  head  above  the  water  and  gazed 
about  in  every  direction.  I  made  no  motion 
and  so  passed  for  a  stick,  one  of  the  many 
hundreds  about  me.  What  it  thought  of  the 
outlook  is  a  matter  of  doubt  in  my  mind,  but 
following  so  soon  after  the  chorus  of  re- 
awakened frogs,  it  doubtless  wondered  what 
all  that  noise  was  about,  and  looked  at  the 
world  with  its  own  eyes,  to  determine  the 
truth  of  the  matter.  Perhaps  it  set  the  frogs 
down  as  liars,  for  the  turtle  quickly  disap- 
peared, and,  though  I  waited  long,  saw  it 
no  more. 

It  was  a  short-long  journey  that  I  went  to- 
day— short  as  the  crow  flies ;  long  if  meas- 
ured by  its  wealth  of  suggestiveness.  This 
swamp,  that  I  would  covered  thousands  of 
acres,  is  but  a  matter  of  a  few  hundred,  and 
these  will  soon  be  drained,  deforested,  and 
despoiled  of  all  its  nature-given  glory.  It  is 
an  idle  fancy  to  suppose  it  foreknows  its 


64  Indian  Summer 

doom,  but  so  lavish  was  k  of  all  its  beauties 
it  seemed  as  if  hopeful  that  its  brave  showing 
would  prove  effectual  to  its  preservation. 
Bright  color  is  not  solely  a  feature  of  summer 
or  of  early  autumn  leaves ;  I  found  it  in  this 
solitary  swamp,  where  every  leaf  had  fallen. 
Bitter-sweet,  fruit  laden  and  so  fiery  red  that 
the  air  seemed  to  glow  with  heat  about  it. 
The  summer  long  this  plant  had  been  an  un- 
pretending vine,  that  mingled  its  green  leaves 
with  the  common  crowd  of  rank  weeds,  and 
gave  no  hint  of  its  superiority.  In  the  fast 
and  furious  struggle  for  supremacy  while  the 
warm  days  of  feverish  sunshine  lasted,  it 
was  content  to  slowly  build  for  the  future, 
and  not  then  and  there  exhaust  itself  in 
merely  overtopping  its  neighbors,  and  what 
of  the  sequel  ?  Now,  in  these  glorious  mid- 
November  days,  these  bird-full,  musical  days 
of  misty  sunshine  and  rejuvenating  warmth, 
the  vine,  that  had  so  long  been  overlooked, 
is  the  chief  glory  of  the  roadside. 


fHE    EFFECT'S    OF   A 
DROUGHT 


FROM  July  6  to  Oftober  31,  1895,  both 
inclusive,  a  period  of  one  hundred  and 
eighteen  days,  there  were  but  seven  during 
which  brief  showers  occurred,  no  one  ex- 
ceeding one-tenth  of  an  inch  of  rain ;  and 
there  were  four  days  when  there  was  pro- 
longed, heavy  precipitation,  not  exceeding 
in  any  instance  seven-tenths  of  an  inch  ;  and 
three  days,  or  parts  of  twenty-four  consecu- 
tive hours,  when  fog  condensed  and  a  drizzle, 
or  "  Scotch  mist,"  prevailed. 

The  more  prolonged  rains  occurring  Sep- 
tember 26  and  Oftober  13  caused  little 
brooks,  that  had  been  dry  for  several  weeks, 
to  "run"  for  forty-eight  hours,  but  there 
was  no  freshening  of  the  weeds  or  grass  on 
either  upland  or  meadow.  About  our  door- 
yards  and  along  the  headlands,  even  where 
shaded  by  rank  weed-growths  and  the  fences, 
s  65 


66     The  Effects  of  a  Drought 

the  ordinary  grass  was  brittle,  brown,  and 
resting  flat  upon  the  earth.  Before  the  be- 
ginning of  September  the  landscape  had  a 
scorched  appearance,  this  applying  also  to 
the  foliage  of  several  species  of  deciduous 
trees.  By  this  time,  too,  the  last  trace  of 
surface  moisture  had  disappeared  from  the 
ordinarily  wet  or  "  mucky"  meadows. 

During  this  time,  even  at  its  close,  I  did 
not  notice  any  appreciable  diminution  of  the 
volume  of  water  flowing  from  the  hill-side 
and  meadow-surface  springs,  although  1 
learned  that  many  wells  had  partly  or  wholly 
failed.  But,  in  all  cases  save  one  that  I  ex- 
amined, the  water  did  not  pass  over  its  usual 
course  and  join  ordinarily  permanent  brooks, 
and  through  them  reach  the  river.  The 
extremely  dry  ground  immediately  about 
the  springs  absorbed  the  entire  outflow  at 
greater  or  less  distances  from  their  sources. 
Of  course,  near  the  springs  there  was  the 
usual  luxuriance  of  aquatic  and  semi-aquatic 
vegetation,  and,  what  is  of  interest  to  the 
Zoologist,  an  abnormal  abundance  or  over- 
crowding of  animal  life  in  these  oasitic 
areas. 

The  continued  presence  of  animal  life  de- 


The  Effects  of  a  Drought    67 

pends  upon  the  food-supply.  It  is  equally 
evident  that  no  form  of  animal  life  can  sur- 
vive for  any  protra&ed  period  an  absence  of 
moisture.  During  the  prevalence  of  the 
drought  heavy  dews  doubtless  afforded  a  suf- 
ficiently copious  morning  draught  to  slake 
the  thirst  for  a  period  of  twenty-four  hours, 
and  so  met  the  needs  of  small  mammals,  as 
mice  and  shrews,  and  birds,  like  sparrows, 
but  ordinarily  these  same  creatures  drink 
much  oftener  than  once  a  day.  But  this 
briefly  moist  condition  of  the  dawn  and  early 
morning  hours  was  not  of  itself  sufficient  to 
keep  the  wide  range  of  animal  life  in  health 
or  comfort,  and  the  result  was  a  migratory 
movement  from  the  drier  uplands  to  the 
moister  meadows ;  a  noticeable  depletion  of 
the  fields  and  overcrowding  of  the  marshes. 
This  was  not  suddenly  brought  about,  but 
rather  gradual,  and  would  not  probably  have 
been  noticed  except  by  one  daily  upon  the 
scene.  The  parched  vegetation  had,  of 
course,  its  effect  upon  seed-eating  birds,  but 
probably  a  more  marked  one  upon  insect  life. 
Certainly  the  inseft-eating  birds  left  their  old 
haunts  to  a  great  extent  and  were  found  in 
unusual  abundance  along  the  two  creeks  that 


68     The  Effects  of  a  Drought 

divide  the  meadows  into  three  great  trails ; 
and  it  was  noticeable  during  the  evening  that 
bats  and  night-hawks  were  more  abundant 
over  the  meadows  than  the  fields.  Mice  and 
hares  certainly  were  unusually  scarce  in  the 
uplands.  Here,  it  should  be  remembered, 
no  observations  were  practicable  that  gave 
positive  results.  No  census  could  be  taken 
of  the  life  in  the  two  localities,  and  every 
statement  is  one  of  general  impressions 
gained  by  almost  daily  visits  to  the  more  im- 
portant points.  One  unquestionable  facl:  was 
ascertained  :  there  was  an  unusual  abundance 
of  life  of  every  kind  in  the  lowlands,  and  a 
quiet,  desolate  condition  of  the  fields  above, 
wholly  different  from  what  obtains  in  ordi- 
nary summers.  As  the  weeks  rolled  by,  the 
smaller  meadow  streams  failed  entirely,  and 
hundreds  of  acres  of  land,  usually  more  or  less 
wet  the  year  through,  became  as  dry,  parched, 
and  desert-like  as  the  sandiest  field  in  the 
higher  ground.  Aquatic  and  semi-aquatic 
plants  withered  and  died.  The  rose  mallow 
failed  to  bloom,  arrow-leaf  wilted,  and  the 
pickerel  weeds  were  soon  as  brown  as  sedges. 
This  condition  necessitated  a  second  migra- 
tory movement  of  many  forms  of  life,  but 


The  Effects  of  a  Drought     69 

was  fatal  to  others.  Such  creatures  as  took 
refuge  in  pools  found  when  too  late  their 
means  of  escape  cut  off  and  perished.  Small 
minnows,  young  salamanders,  and  even 
aquatic  insefts  gradually  succumbed,  and 
their  dried  remains  were  found  resting  upon 
the  parched  mud,  which  became  quite  hard, 
sustaining  an  ordinary  foot-press  without  re- 
taining any  mark  thereof.  Lifting  the  mum- 
mified remains  from  their  resting-place,  there 
were  found  impressions  of  each,  distinct  in 
almost  every  feature.  It  was  instructive  as 
showing  how  fossils  are  formed,  and  further 
so,  in  indicating  how  animals  not  associated 
in  life  become  accumulated  in  small  areas. 
In  one  such  dried-up  pool  I  found  a  mouse, 
a  star-nosed  mole,  and  remains  of  many  earth- 
worms, as  well  as  fish,  batrachians,  and  in- 
sefts.  Just  why  the  mouse  and  mole  should 
have  remained  there  and  died  can  only  be 
surmised.  But,  to  return  to  the  uplands :  a 
more  striking  instance  of  the  effedls  of  the 
drought  was  to  be  seen  in  a  small  stream 
known  as  Pond  Run.  This  is  fed  by  scat- 
tered springs ;  is  a  stream  of  perhaps  an 
average  depth  of  six  inches  and  a  width  of 
two  or  three  feet.  Sudden  dashes  of  rain 


70     The  Effects  of  a  Drought 

swell  the  volume  of  waters,  but  this  accession 
is  as  rapidly  run  off.  In  ordinary  summers 
the  volume  is  reduced  to  considerably  below 
the  estimated  average  measurements,  but  the 
stream  has  seldom  before  been  known  to  be 
absolutely  dry  throughout  its  course.  For  a 
period  of  five  weeks  the  water  from  the 
springs  along  its  valley  were  insufficient  to 
give  it  running  water,  and  in  many  cases 
there  was  no  perceptible  moisture  at  the 
fountain-heads.  As  the  water  gradually  dis- 
appeared, that  portion  of  the  stream's  fauna 
dependent  wholly  upon  moisture — as  fish, 
turtles,  and  batrachians — collected  in  the 
pools,  particularly  those  beneath  bridges,  and 
there,  by  overcrowding,  soon  poisoned  the 
water,  to  which  no  fresh  supply  was  being 
added.  It  might  be  asked  why  these  ani- 
mals, except  the  fish,  did  not  seek  other  and 
healthier  localities,  but  the  reason  is  plain. 
Everywhere  about  them  was  an  arid  region 
exposed  to  a  tropical  temperature  into  which 
they  did  not  dare  to  venture.  Again,  while 
lingering  in  the  pest-holes  into  which  they 
had  gathered,  they  had  gradually  undermined 
their  strength  and  were  too  weak  to  travel 
when,  if  ever,  it  occurred  to  them  to  do  so. 


The  Effects  of  a  Drought     71 

And  now  back  to  the  meadows.  The  last 
general  migratory  movement  was  to  the  tide- 
water flats,  and  here,  of  course,  the  moisture 
and  vegetation  were  unaffected,  and  I  have 
never  seen  so  crowded  a  condition  as  that  in 
which  were  many  of  the  streams  that  were 
never  quite  dry  at  even  the  lowest  stage  of 
the  tide.  The  carnivorous  fishes  waxed  fat, 
for  there  was  an  available  minnow  ever  in 
front  of  every  pike,  perch,  and  bass ;  and 
the  grasshoppers,  driven  to  the  creek  banks, 
where  alone  there  was  green  herbage,  were 
continually  leaping  into  the  stream,  and  were 
snapped  up  before  they  could  reach  the  op- 
posite shore.  There  was  here,  however, 
not  such  an  accession  of  batrachian  life,  frogs 
in  particular,  as  might  have  been  expected, 
and  I  failed  to  notice  any  undue  number  of 
the  mud  minnow  (Umbra  limf).  This  fact 
led  me  to  make  a  few  examinations  of  the 
parched  or  semi-desiccated  areas.  I  found 
in  two  locations,  that  I  had  never  before 
known  to  become  dry,  that  frogs,  of  three 
species,  and  the  mud  minnow  had  buried 
themselves  where  there  still  remained  moist- 
ure, but  with  a  crust  of  dry  earth  above  it. 
These  frogs  and  fish  were  like  hibernating 


72     The  Effects  of  a  Drought 

animals  when  exhumed, — i.e.,  soundly  asleep, 
rather  than  dead,  and  all  slowly  revived  when 
placed  in  clear,  cool  water.  I  estimated  that 
they  had  been  in  their  cramped  quarters  for 
at  least  three  weeks.  Two  weeks  later,  I 
hunted  for  others,  but  failed  to  find  them ; 
but  the  day  after  the  first  prolonged  rain  I 
found  the  mud  minnows  in  their  usual  abun- 
dance in  this  same  brook,  which  now  had 
about  one-half  its  ordinary  flow  of  water, 
and  the  frogs  were  dozing  on  the  banks  and 
leaping  into  the  stream  as  unconcernedly  as 
if  nothing  unusual  had  occurred. 

Possibly  the  above  simple  narration  of 
certain  fa£ts  may  seem  to  be  of  no  special 
interest  or  importance,  but  there  were  two 
features  of  it  that  do  not  appear  to  have  been 
treated  of  in  general  natural  histories :  the 
self-inhumation  of  the  fish  and  frogs  and  the 
wonderful  promptness  of  the  return  of  life 
to  the  temporarily  depopulated  areas.  It 
does  not  seem  unreasonable  to  suggest  that  as 
long  as  these  inhumed  animals  could  retain 
the.ir  moisture  they  could  preserve  their 
lives.  Both  the  frogs  and  this  one  fish  can 
withstand  prolonged  deprivation  of  food.  I 
have  tried  the  cruel  experiment  in  one  in- 


The  Effects  of  a  Drought     73 

stance,  and  a  mud  minnow  had  no  food  for 
seven  weeks,  and  had  only  lost  two-fifths  of 
its  weight  when  it  died.  As  this  is  a  period 
longer  than  the  duration  of  any  drought  on 
record,  when  fish-sustaining  streams  were 
aftually  dry,  it  goes  to  show  that  this  species 
is  better  prepared  than  any  other  to  accom- 
modate itself  to  certain  geological  changes 
when  they  come  about.  Curiously  enough, 
the  mud  minnow  looks  more  like  a  fossil 
than  an  ordinary  brook  minnow,  is  the  sole 
representative  of  its  genus,  and  is  the  only 
species  of  fresh-water  fish  found  in  both 
Europe  and  America. 

While  the  drought  destroyed  much  life,  it 
more  largely  deported  it,  and  I  have,  in 
many  years  of  wandering  about  my  home, 
seen  nothing  more  positively  wonderful  than 
the  promptness  with  which  every  nook  and 
corner  was  repopulated  when  the  autumn 
rains  came.  Vegetal  as  well  as  animal  life 
responded  at  once.  The  fish  were  promptly 
in  the  brooks,  the  aquatic  salamanders  under 
the  flat  stones,  and  the  frogs  in  their  places ; 
and  on  many  an  afternoon  of  sunny  October 
days  I  heard  their  croaking,  as  if  thankful 
for  the  return  of  the  old-time  conditions. 


74    The  Effects  of  a  Drought 

During  the  summer  of  1896,  there  was  a 
more  abundant  precipitation  during  the 
months  of  June  and  July,  and  the  area  de- 
scribed in  the  foregoing  pages  was  not  so 
soon  affefted  by  lack  of  water ;  but  the  an- 
nual drought,  though  delayed,  came  at  last, 
and  I  was,  of  course,  curious  to  note  its 
effefts  and  compare  notes  with  the  preceding 
summer.  Herein  I  was  disappointed,  for,  to 
all  appearances,  there  had  been  going  on  an- 
ticipatory movements  on  the  part  of  the  same 
forms  of  life  observed  in  1895;  and  before 
the  upland  brooks  and  swamps  were  dry,  and 
only  the  margins  of  springs  were  constantly 
wet,  all  animal  life  had  sought  the  tide- water 
areas,  where  the  evil  effe&s  of  drought  could 
not  reach  them.  I  found  no  fish  entrapped 
in  pools  without  outlets,  or  a  single  sleeping, 
mud-encased  frog  or  minnow.  The  general 
aspect,  zoologically,  of  many  an  upland  trail 
was  that  of  an  "azoic"  desert,  suggesting 
that  no  living  creature  had  ever  been  here ; 
and,  truly,  there  is  no  more  melancholy  sight 
than  the  dry  bed  of  a  brook  which  for  ten 
months  of  the  year  is  the  scene  of  aftive  life 
in  endless  forms.  I  had  rather  wander 
among  skeletons  in  an  opened  graveyard 


The  Effects  of  a  Drought    75 

than  take  my  outing  in  the  track  of  a  de- 
serted watercourse.  Nothing  was  gained 
by  the  comparison  of  the  conditions  of  the 
one  summer  with  the  other,  for  it  is  beyond 
belief  that  the  life  that  was  discommoded  by 
the  drought  really  anticipated  it.  I  suppose 
the  change  was  more  gradual  than  in  1895, 
and  no  form  of  life  was  caught  napping.  I 
should  have  made  daily  observations  for  more, 
than  a  month,  walking  ten  miles  every  morn- 
ing and  evening,  and  I  did  nothing  of  the- 
kind ;  and  it  is  only  by  unremitting  effort 
and  an  abundance  of  early  morning  courage 
that  really  valuable  observations  can  be  made. 
A  leisurely  outlook,  at  your  convenience, 
may  be  very  pleasant,  but  do  not  generalize 
upon  what  you  see  under  such  circumstances. 
To  return  to  our  subject :  if  the  phenom- 
enon of  a  drought  became  an  established  con- 
dition, a  migratorial  movement  from  upland 
to  meadow  would  soon  become  established  ; 
just  as  every  year  there  is  a  transitionary  flight 
of  sparrows  of  several  species  from  the  upland 
fields  to  the  low-lying  meadows.  This  is,  I 
suppose,  a  question  among  themselves  of  food- 
supply,  the  crop  of  seeds  failing  in  the  fields 
first  because  there  they  are  earlier  to  ripen. 


76     The  Effects  of  a  Drought 

There  was,  however,  one  feature  of  the 
past  summer  that  had  peculiar  interest.  For 
eight  days  in  August  (5-12)  we  had  the 
hottest  "  spell"  ever  known.  The  thermo- 
metric  readings  have  been  higher  in  other 
years,  but  this  is  not  everything  :  all  the  con- 
ditions are  to  be  considered,  the  hygrometric 
especially,  and  in  this  instance  it  can  be 
safely  said  that  no  record  exists  of  continued 
heat  when  wild-life  was  so  generally  affefted 
and  the  weather,  as  a  whole,  so  nearly  that 
of  the  equatorial  tropics.  As  a  whole,  the 
effect  of  the  heat,  as  I  observed  it,  was  a 
stupefying  one.  It  produced  a  languor  that 
while  withstood  by  such  wild  animals  as 
rabbits,  mice,  and  chipmunks,  made  them 
inert  and  much  more  easily  outstripped  in  a 
race.  This  was  notably  so  in  the  case  of  the 
jumping,  the  short-tailed  meadow,  and  the 
white-footed  mouse ;  not  one  of  which,  it 
may  be  said,  is  akin  to  the  typical  house 
mouse.  In  several  instances,  the  land  tor- 
toise, though  it  was  sheltered  by  dead  leaves 
and  in  the  shady  woods,  was  very  noticeably 
indisposed  to  move  about.  In  the  range  of 
my  rambles  there  was  a  marked  period  of 
rest,  as  we  may  call  it,  from  10  A.M.  to  4 


The  Effects  of  a  Drought     77 

P.M.,  that  recalled  the  prolonged  mid-harvest 
noonings  of  the  farmer's  help ;  but,  besides 
this,  the  heated  term  in  question  really  affefted 
wild-life  throughout  the  night  as  well.  Cer- 
tainly there  was  a  marked  difference  in  the 
activity  of  all  furred  creatures.  The  differ- 
ence in  temperature  between  noon  and  mid- 
night did  not  always  rouse  even  the  flying- 
squirrels  to  their  wonted  no&urnal  activities. 
If  the  temperature  of  those  August  days  was 
prolonged  to  sixty  or  ninety  days,  and  of 
regular  occurrence,  migration  or  aestivation 
would  be  brought  about, — more  probably  the 
latter.  Something  akin  to  it  can  be  traced, 
if  our  investigations  are  thorough,  even  now. 
Whatever  may  be  its  cause,  the  drought  ap- 
pears to  have  become  an  established  con- 
dition, but  varying  as  to  time,  of  each  sum- 
mer. It  is  more  marked  now  than  a  century 
ago,  and  the  question  arises,  Is  it  the  initial 
step  towards  a  change  of  climate,  to  a  wet 
and  dry  season,  rather  than  the  present  dual 
condition  of  warm  and  cold  ? 

A  single  entertaining  incident  relieved  the 
scene  of  desolation, — for  these  strong  terms 
are  certainly  applicable  to  a  region  affe&ed 
by  even  this  less  prolonged  drought  of  1896. 


78     The  Effects  of  a  Drought 

I  found  a  philosophical  toad,  housed  in  a 
very  unique  fashion.  Crows  had  pecked  a 
hole  in  an  early  maturing  watermelon  and 
then  turned  it  over  in  order  that  the  seeds 
might  fall  out  or  gravitate  to  the  opening,  as 
the  pulp  of  the  melon  slowly  decayed.  This 
is  an  old  trick  of  these  birds  that  is  so  in- 
genious that  I  am  more  than  ever  their  friend 
in  spite  of  the  mischief  done.  A  few  melons 
less,  but  does  the  entertainment  afforded  by 
the  birds  go  for  nothing  ?  When  I  made  the 
discovery  there  was  little  more  than  the 
wrinkled  rind  left,  draped  inside  with  an 
abundance  of  very  red  paper.  The  toad — a 
very  old  one  from  appearance — had  taken  up 
his  abode  in  the  melon,  and  to  see  him  sitting 
at  the  door  of  his  home,  contemplating  the 
drying  up  of  creation,  was  extremely  funny. 
Everybody  that  I  brought  to  the  spot  had 
something  to  say  about  Diogenes  and  his  tub, 
and  I  gave  up  all  intention  of  writing  on  this 
subjeft.  Diogenes  was  in  everybody's  mouth, 
even  to  high-school  girl  graduates  of  the  cur- 
rent summer.  That  toad  led  to  more  display 
of  classical  knowledge  than  I  had  previously 
discovered  in  the  conversation  of  my  friends. 
I  considered  the  toad  from  a  purely  zoologi- 


The  Effects  of  a  Drought     79 

cal  stand-point.  The  creature  was  in  truth 
a  philosopher.  The  sweet  edges  of  the 
opening  in  the  melon  attracted  inse&s,  and 
so  the  toad  had  food,  shelter,  and  a  safe  re- 
treat from  the  scorching  temperature  so  asso- 
ciated that  no  physical  exertion  was  required 
to  meet  all  life's  demands. 


JTINfER-GREEN 


THE  woods  in  winter  are  as  thick  with 
short  sermons  as  ever  in  June  they 
are  obscured  by  green  leaves.  The  mercury 
fell  to  zero  in  the  night  and  the  ground  is  as 
a  rock,  yet  I  found  an  unfaded,  thrifty  plant 
that  made  no  sign  of  discouragement  and 
looked  up  as  confidently  as  violets  in  May. 
Winter-green ;  and  when  so  much  is  in  the 
name  itself,  why  say  more  ?  A  thrifty  growth 
that  defies  the  frost  and  adds  its  mite  to 
the  cheerfulness  about  it,  whatever  the  con- 
ditions. How  much  winter-green  breaks 
through  our  habitual  crustiness ! 

Seen  from  afar,  perhaps  the  old  woods 
looked  dreary  ;  but  who  ever  fathomed  the 
merit  and  merriment  beyond  a  wrinkled  face 
until  circumstances  led  us  to  break  through 
the  restraining  frown?  To  him  who  is  a 
stranger  to  them,  the  woods  in  winter  are 
forbidding.  Advances  cannot  come  from 
80 


Winter-green  81 

them.  Have  they  ever  come  from  you  ?  I 
went  into  the  woods  this  morning  with  a 
light  heart  because  every  old  oak  was  a  life- 
long companion,  and  the  glinting  sunshine 
was  their  smiles,  and  not  mere  glitter  of  the 
sun  beyond.  We  lose  in  part  our  grip  upon 
enjoyment  when  we  cease  to  make  believe, 
child-fashion.  Seeing  the  winter-green,  I 
fancied  it  was  spring ;  and  then  came  mosses 
and  greenbrier  and  the  chatter  of  a  squirrel. 
What,  then,  did  it  matter  where  the  mercury 
went  ?  It  might  disappear  without  affefting 
these  pleasant  February  foretastes  of  what  is 
near  at  hand.  There  was  not  a  forbidding 
feature  within  sight;  and  while  I  dallied 
with  the  thread-like  mosses  clinging  to  the 
trees  there  came  by  that  delightful  songster 
of  the  round  year,  a  Carolina  wren.  There 
was  never  weather  so  foul  but  this  bird  has 
a  pleasant  word  to  speak  of  it.  It  came,  it 
sang,  it  conquered.  There  was  neither  cold, 
nor  gloom,  nor  evidence  of  more  cheerful 
days  in  time  past,  when  the  wren,  perched 
upon  a  bending  branch  of  spicewood,  uttered 
all  the  happiness  of  its  unchanging  heart. 
That  song  could  have  held  back  the  darkness. 
Had  it,  too,  found  the  winter-green  ?  Stay  ! 

6 


82  Winter-green 

Can  it  be  possible  that  I  heard  the  creaking 
of  a  rusty  sign-board,  and  this  Carolina  wren 
was  born  of  my  inner  consciousness?  Such 
a  suggestion  came  recently  from  an  ornitholo- 
gist !  What  if  the  scales  were  to  drop  from 
my  eyes,  only  to  find  that  here  in  my  home, 
on  these  old  meadows,  there  never  was  a  bird, 
and  the  region  was  in  its  primeval,  azoic  con- 
dition ?  How  the  fellow  would  rejoice !  As 
for  me,  I  am  glad  that  the  ornithologist's 
soulless  birds,  mere  bones  and  feathers,  keep 
away. 

I  followed  a  narrow  wood-path  that  led 
me  into  the  very  depths  of  the  forest ;  but 
green  leaves  were  still  about  me,  and  now  I 
heard  a  chatter  as  if  some  hidden  friend  were 
laughing  at  me,  and  the  blue-jay  and  golden- 
winged  woodpecker  were  near  at  hand  and 
questioning  me  rather  than  I  them.  They, 
too,  laughed  at  this  zero  weather,  and  the 
woodpecker  tapped  on  the  hollow  branch  of 
a  primeval  oak ;  tapped  and  rattled  with  all 
his  might,  and  then  turned  to  me  as  if  for 
applause.  Then  away  to  still  more  remote 
recesses  in  the  wood,  laughing  all  the  while. 
I  remembered  the  winter-green,  and  laughed, 
too.  For  a  while,  as  I  stood  there,  the  woods 


Winter-green  83 

were  silent.  I  had  a  vivid  impression  for 
the  moment  that  it  was  really  winter  and  in- 
tensely cold.  If  I  had  suffered  it  would 
have  been  my  own  fault  wholly,  for  he  who 
truly  loves  an  outing  can  keep  all  ugliness  in 
the  background.  It  requires  no  magician's 
wand.  I  looked  again  for  winter-green  and 
found  it,  and  there,  too,  was  the  bush-nest 
of  white-footed  mice.  I  startled  them  from 
their  snug  retreat  and  gave  chase,  and,  after 
a  brisk  dash  through  the  underbrush,  came 
off  captor.  Now,  it  is  well  at  times  to  be  as. 
savage  as  ever  was  palaeolithic  man,  who  lived 
ages  ago  on  this  very  spot,  but  stop  this  side 
of  murder.  Follow  the  game  as  closely,  as 
persistently,  as  the  hound  follows  the  fox, 
but,  at  the  final  moment,  offer  the  hand  of 
fellowship  rather  than  the  fangs  of  destruc- 
tion. The  former  merely  ends  the  chapter, 
with  sweeter  ones  to  follow ;  the  latter  ends 
a  tragedy  of  but  one  aft,  and  leaves  the  sur- 
vivor unworthy  of  himself.  I  carried  the 
captive  mouse  back  to  his  home,  but  held 
him  awhile  before  setting  him  down  at  his 
own  door.  What  a  gain  it  would  have  been 
could  I  have  translated  the  glitter  of  his 
black  eyes  !  Was  it  fear  or  rage  ?  I  judge 


84  Winter-green 

the  former,  for  the  poor  thing  trembled,  and 
when  I  set  it  down  it  ran,  not  into  its  house, 
but  to  a  prostrate  log,  and  disappeared  under 
dead  leaves.  I  certainly  had  not  gained  its 
confidence,  and  when  I  come  this  way  again 
it  will  not  be  caught  napping.  No  matter 
how  gently  I  move,  it  will  never  believe  I 
did  not  intend  it  harm.  Its  first  impressions, 
like  our  own,  are  stamped  with  indelible  ink 
that  will  shine  through  the  varnish  of  all 
subsequent  experiences.  Perhaps  I  dulled 
the  winter-green  for  the  day  of  that  one 
mouse,  but  I  had  brightened  my  own.  No 
incident,  however  trifling,  should  be  lost 
upon  us,  and  my  pulses  were  thrilled  with  a 
healthier  joy  than  the  hunter  had  experi- 
enced, who  had  passed  me  by,  laden  with 
furs  from  his  traps.  The  recent  flood  had 
worked  destruction  to  the  muskrats,  and  not 
a  mink  or  raccoon  or  opossum  but  had  fled 
from  the  drowned  meadows.  They  were 
hiding  in  these  woods,  so  the  trapper  told 
me,  but  I  had  not  seen  them.  Not  one  of 
them  but  is  more  cunning  than  a  mouse,  but 
I  do  not  know  that  they  could  have  taught 
me  any  more  had  I  met  them  in  my  path. 
They  have  not  greater  significance  because 


Winter-green  85 

of  their  size,  and  are  too  apt  to  rouse  the 
savage  instinct  that  was  the  only  impulse  of 
primitive  man.  But  I  kept  more  upon  the 
alert  when  again  alone,  and  thought  every 
scratch  of  the  ground  was  the  footprint  of 
an  animal.  Not  a  bunch  of  leaves  but  moved 
as  might  a  wildcat  or  a  skulking  coon.  I 
had  ceased  to  ramble  and  turned  hunter,  but 
the  merriest  of  all  our  winter  birds  recalled 
me  to  my  better  senses.  The  crested  tit 
whistled  here!  here!  and  looking  up  I  saw 
green  leaves  upon  the  climbing  smilax,  and 
looking  down,  winter-green  was  waving 
above  fresh  mosses  that  had  not  been  fingered 
by  the  blighting  frost.  There  was  not  a 
feature  of  the  thick  woods  but  wore  a  smile ; 
and  that  strange  bird,  by  its  magic,  conjured 
up  every  songster  within  hearing,  and  jays, 
cardinals,  kinglets,  and  chickadees  came  to 
the  very  tree  upon  which  he  perched.  The 
old  oak  was  an  aviary,  and  what  gladness 
rang  through  the  old  woods,  which  are  said 
to  be  deserted  and  dreary  even  unto  desola- 
tion in  winter !  Did  I  carry  winter-green 
into  the  town,  I  would  be  told  it  came  from 
a  hot-house.  Well,  it  did  not  come  from 
the  death-like  regions  of  your  supposition,  a 


86  Winter-green 

lifeless  wood  in  winter.  I  never  saw  such  a 
place.  With  the  mercury  at  zero,  there  was 
still  abundant  life,  abundant  winter-green, 
abundant  incident  about  which  to  ponder,  as 
I  pass  down  the  long,  varying  line  of  days 
that  make  my  changeful  years. 


?HE  WITCHERY  OF  WINTER 


"  TF  a  walk  in  winter  is  not  simply  stum- 
1  bling  over  the  graves  of  a  dead  sum- 
mer's darlings,  what,  pray,  is  it  ?"  In  some 
such  way  ran  the  remark  of  a  man  who  had 
seen  our  winters  only  from  car-windows  or 
those  of  his  house  on  the  city's  street.  It 
is  not  strange  that  he  held  such  an  opinion. 
Not  even  a  sleigh-ride  affords  a  fair  view  of 
the  world  in  winter.  We  must  be  free  to 
move  if  we  would  be  free  to  see,  and  only 
when  on  foot  and  we  have  the  freedom  of 
the  fields  as  well  as  of  the  highways  can  we 
know  what  winter  really  means,  and  by  win- 
ter I  mean  weather  that  requires  us  to  make 
war  upon  the  wood-pile.  Winter  is  the 
crystallization  of  a  summer.  A  fixedness 
and  quiet  now  replace  the  flowing  river  and 
music  of  the  many  birds  that  sang  through- 
out its  valley.  Now  are  the  days  of  slender 
shadows  that  streak  the  dull  gray  ground  or 
87 


88     The  Witchery  of  Winter 

send  narrow  lines  of  darkness  over  the  un- 
trodden snow.  The  shades  of  leafy  summer 
are  shrunken.  There  are  dimly  lighted 
nooks  where  cedars  cluster  and  crannies  that 
are  well  defended  by  the  frozen  ferns,  but 
light  is  all-pervading,  in  a  general  sense,  and 
how  wide  open  alike  are  the  fields  and  forest ! 
The  opened  door  is  an  invitation  to  enter, 
but  how  slow  are  we  to  accept  the  invitation 
of  winter,  when  the  leafy  curtains  are  with- 
drawn and  the  world  more  than  ever  open  to 
inspection !  Are  we  to  be  forever  afraid  to 
look  through  the  bare  twigs  to  the  sky  above, 
lest  we  see  the  new  moon  barred  by  a  branch 
and  so  tremble  for  our  luck?  The  naked 
beam  and  rafter  of  Nature's  temple  are  not 
desolate  as  the  ruins  of  man's  handiwork,  for 
we  know  that  their  covering  will  be  renewed 
in  due  season.  Trees,  indeed,  in  their  un- 
dress uniform  are  none  the  less  natural  and 
forever  retain  their  individuality.  The 
wrinkles  of  their  bark  are  their  autographs, 
and  we  should  learn  to  read  them. 

But  what  is  winter  to  me  ?  The  brook, 
the  leafless  trees,  the  frozen  grass,  and  all 
hungry  life,  whether  bird  or  beast,  protest, 
but  I  find  no  reason  to  complain.  My 


The  Witchery  of  Winter 


The  Witchery  of  Winter 

scad  narrow  lines  of  darkness  over  the  un- 
^n  snow.  The  shades  of  leafy  summer 
are  shrunken.  There  are  dimly  lighted 
nooks  where  cedars  cluster  and  crannies  that 
are  well  defended  by  the  frozen  ferns,  but 
light  is  all-pervading,  in  a  general  sense,  and 
how  wide  open  alike  are  the  fields  and  forest ! 
The  opened  door  is  an  invitation  to  enter, 
but  how  slow  are  we  to  accept  the  invitation 
of  winter,  when  the  leafy  curtains  are  with- 
drawn and  the  world  more  than  ever  open  to 
inspection !  Are  we  to  be  forever  afraid  to 
look  through  the  bare  twigs  to  the  sky  above, 
lest  we  see  the  new  moon  barred  by  a  branch 
and  so  tremble  for  our  luck?  The  naked 
beam  and  rafter  of  Nature's  temple  are  not 
desolate  as  the  ruins  of  man's  handiwork,  for 
we  know  that  their  covering  will  be  renewed 
in  due  season.  Trees,  indeed,  in  their  un- 
dress uniform  are  none  the  less  natural  and 
forever  retain  their  individuality.  The 
wrinkles  of  their  bark  are  their  autog 
and  we  should  learn  to  read  them. 

But  what  is  winter  to  me  ?  Th«  brook, 
the  leafless  trees,  the  frozen  grass,  ana  all 
hungry  life,  whether  otest, 

but    I    find    n«tudraisv>.i(;<*&ttro  sA'V  din.      My 


The  Witchery  of  Winter     89 

needs  are  never  many,  and  I  have  no  sense 
of  want  when  "  fun  in  feathers,"  the 
crested  tit,  bears  me  company.  We  met 
this  morning  at  the  three  beeches,  and  wan- 
dered together  down  the  wood  road  to  the 
edge  of  the  meadow.  I  have  been  walking 
here  for  so  many  years  there  is  danger  of 
repetition  if  I  mention  to-day ;  but  no, 
Nature  is  never  a  repetition.  The  fault  lies 
with  ourselves  if  this  is  apparently  true. 
Nature  cares  nothing  for  us,  and  we  must 
force  her  to  smile  if  we  would  be  at  all 
favored.  The  wind  has  other  errands  than 
to  whistle  for  our  amusement ;  no  storm 
ever  passed  by  on  the  other  side  because  of 
our  presence.  All  that  we  learn  comes  from 
our  own  efforts ;  we  must  wrest  Nature's 
secrets  from  her ;  she  neither  invites  us  nor 
volunteers  any  information.  Every  day  has 
its  own  history,  and  the  friends  of  yester- 
day are  often  more  companionable  to-day. 
Certainly  my  jolly,  crested  tit  has  gained 
since  first  we  met,  and  now  is  nearer  per- 
feftion  than  ever  before.  I  am  sure  of  this, 
and  yet  much  may  be  due  to  a  clearer  insight 
as  to  what  a  bird  really  is.  Is  my  compan- 
ion bird  ever  convinced  I  have  no  weapon 


go     The  Witchery  of  Winter 

about  me?  Tame  as  he  is,  he  never  de- 
stroys the  bridges  behind  him.  I  cannot 
quite  gain  his  confidence.  I  fancy  if  some 
of  us  could  see  ourselves  as  birds  see  us, 
with  what  a  sense  of  degradation  would  we 
be  overwhelmed  !  Seldom  is  it  that  we  are 
not  greeted,  by  every  bird  we  meet,  as  a 
red-handed  murderer.  An  exception  to- 
day, however,  for  this  jolly  tit  was  socially 
inclined.  He  peeped  over  his  shoulder  as  I 
drew  near ;  called  out  to  me  as  I  was  about 
to  pass  by,  and  so  we  exchanged  "good- 
mornings"  as  friend  to  friend.  It  is  difficult 
to  decide  whether  man  or  bird  was  really 
the  leader,  we  kept  so  near  together  as  we 
passed  to  the  end  of  our  woodland  journey. 

It  needs  but  some  such  incident  as  this  to 
give  us  insight  as  to  winter's  real  character. 
There  can  come  no  impression  of  death  or 
desolation  when,  as  we  pass,  we  have  birds 
hailing  us  from  every  tree-top,  and  is  it  not 
significant  that  our  smallest  bird,  save  one, 
braves  our  severest  weather  ?  Yet  we  muffle 
ourselves  in  endless  wraps  and  rush  frantically 
from  shelter  to  shelter  when  the  mercury 
ranges  low,  as  if  the  frost  of  a  midwinter 
day  was  as  fatal  as  some  devouring  flame. 


The  Witchery  of  Winter     91 

There  is  a  pretty  outlook  at  the  edge  of 
the  woods,  and  never  more  attractive  than 
when  the  snow  lightly  covers  the  grass,  and 
every  tall  rush  and  sedge  and  berry-laden 
bush  stands  forth  in  greater  beauty  because 
of  the  glistening  background ;  and  here,  red 
as  our  brightest  berry,  the  cardinal  shone 
on  the  bare  twigs  as  the  gayest  midsummer 
blossom.  Now  here  is  wealth  sufficient  for 
any  rambler's  needs,  and  greater  would  prove 
an  embarrassment.  There  can  be  too  many 
birds  at  one  time,  as  witness  the  warblers  on 
May-day.  You  are  easily  lost  in  a  crowd, 
but  what  is  more  charming  than  a  quiet  chat 
with  a  friend  ?  My  crested  tit  had  left  me, 
but  here  was  the  kinglet  still,  and  now  a 
sprightly  cardinal  had  come.  He,  too,  is 
most  excellent  company,  but  how  seldom 
disposed  to  be  confiding !  The  safety  of  a 
thicket  must  ever  be  at  hand  and  never  an 
instant  that  his  eyes  are  not  upon  you.  It 
is  very  humiliating,  but  though  our  meetings 
are  always  marred  in  this  way,  there  is  still 
abundant  pleasure  in  them.  To-day  the 
cardinal  whistled  a  wild  note  that  ought  to 
have  waked  the  echoes  in  the  sleepy  hills, — 
a  clear,  fife-like  call,  as  if  it  would  rouse  the 


92     The  Witchery  of  Winter 

slumbering  trees  and  make  the  grass  green 
again ;  but  the  cardinal's  magic  reached  me 
only,  and  I  forgot  that  it  was  winter. 

There  is  a  livelier  thrill  to  every  pulse- 
beat  when  saluted  in  such  hearty  fashion. 
We  are  of  one  mind,  this  cardinal  and  I, 
and  agree  that  winter  needs  to  be  better  un- 
derstood. Here  at  my  feet  is  a  frozen  and 
forlorn  fern,  but  it  is  green  still,  if  it  no 
longer  waves  gracefully  as  a  feather  in  the 
passing  breeze ;  accept  it  for  what  it  recalls 
to-day,  and  be  not  forever  fretful  because 
summer  could  not  stay  and  protect  it.  Every 
crisp,  brown  leaf  that  has  fallen  from  the 
oaks  has  its  own  story  to  tell.  Have  you 
listened  yet  to  know  how  charming  it  really 
is?  Here  among  them,  too,  are  acorns  in 
endless  numbers, — large  and  small  ones ; 
brown,  green,  and  mottled  ones.  Here, 
where  squirrels  have  been  feasting  in  the 
cheerful  warmth  of  winter  sunshine,  I,  too, 
can  find  comfort,  even  playing  with  acorn- 
cups  for  an  hour,  and  so  again  a  child. 
There  is  no  cause  for  discontent  in  a  winter 
that  merely  sports  with  the  tip  of  your  nose 
or  stiffens  your  ears.  Are  you  going  to 
retreat  at  such  an  assault,  and,  showing  a 


The  Witchery  of  Winter     93 

white  flag,  hurry  to  the  fireside?  Such 
winter  days  ought  to  bring  out  one's  true 
self,  and  just  so  far  as  the  weather  is  hearty 
be  the  same.  Meet  it  half-way,  and  what 
we  should  fear  of  it  will  never  come  to  pass. 
Winter  finds  us  such  easy  prey  that  it  reaches 
the  heart.  Summer  there,  and  you  are  well 
armed.  Neither  the  winter  of  each  return- 
ing year  nor  the  stealthy  winter  of  age  can, 
thus  armed,  ever  claim  you  captive.  But  let 
Nature  preach;  it  is  not  man's  forte.  No 
sermon  fits  the  sunshine  of  a  clear  December 
day  other  than  one  of  its  own  reading ;  and 
the  frozen  meadow  can  speak  direftly  to 
you,  and  will,  if  you  are  disposed  to  listen. 
There  will  be  no  waste  of  words,  no  rhe- 
torical flourishes,  but  a  plain  exposition  of 
what  is  transpiring,  and  why.  It  is  not 
always  that  we  ask  intelligent  questions,  and 
Nature  is  quite  certain  to  resent  the  inquisi- 
tiveness  of  idle  curiosity.  The  mystery  of 
Nature  is  only  the  lack  of  our  ability  to 
comprehend  her.  Much  of  what  is  imputed 
to  Nature  as  a  mysterious  quality  is  really  a 
lack  of  brains  on  our  own  part. 

The  frozen  meadow  was  beautiful,  but  I 
lingered  in  the  woods.     There  is  a  feeling 


94     The  Witchery  of  Winter 

of  companionship  when  among  old  trees  that 
is  less  pronounced  among  the  weeds  and 
grass ;  a  circle  of  the  eleft  in  one  case,  the 
common  crowd  in  the  other;  but  this  is 
unkind  to  the  honest  weeds  in  the  meadow. 
But  I  was  not  alone  with  the  trees.  I 
startled  deer-mice  that  leaped  in  a  bewil- 
dered way  from  their  bird-nest  homes,  and 
what  a  tumult  in  a  decayed  log  when  I  sent 
a  great  puff  of  smoke  through  the  many 
tunnellings  of  the  rotten  tree-trunk  now 
occupied  by  fat,  lazy  meadow  mice ! — those 
that  have  the  long  runways  in  the  grass  and 
burrows  besides,  deep  into  the  ground,  into 
which  they  precipitately  flee  when  too  close 
pressed.  It  is  only  of  recent  date  that  I 
have  found  these  creatures  entertaining. 

They  have  hitherto  been  stupid  and  I 
have  often  passed  them  by  without  a  second 
glance,  but  a  touch  of  frost  wakens  them  to  a 
livelier  pace,  and  then,  as  it  was  to-day,  they 
are  worthy  game  for  the  fun-loving  rambler. 
When  these  mice  sit  up,  with  a  berry  in 
their  forepaws,  and  look  inquiringly  about 
as  you  draw  near,  they  have  as  much  char- 
after  as  any  squirrel,  and  are  very  like  the 
marmots  of  the  far  West  in  their  general 


The  Witchery  of  Winter     95 

appearance,  though  infinitely  smaller.  Mice 
that  make  merry  on  the  frozen  grass  and  can 
squeak  defiance  to  the  prowling  hawk  are 
no  mean  feature  of  a  winter  outlook. 

And  the  hawk  itself, — a  pale-blue  harrier 
that  with  matchless  grace  swept  the  weed- 
tops, — what  a  feature  to  any  landscape !  I 
had  been  thinking  well  of  the  poor  mice 
that  fled  in  terror  from  me  and  made  much 
of  them  for  the  time,  but  how  quickly  for- 
gotten were  they  in  the  presence  of  a  hawk  ! 
It  is  not  strange,  but  is  it  wise  to  be  thus 
easily  led  from  the  lesser  to  the  greater 
objeft?  Rid  yourself  of  preconceptions, 
and  study  both  hawk  and  mouse  without 
prejudice,  and  is  there  greater  nobility  in 
the  feathers  than  in  the  fur?  Is  the  com- 
manding murderer  more  to  be  commended 
and  admired  and  copied  than  the  murdered 
mouse  ?  If  closely  questioned  we  say  "  no"  • 
to  the  bystanders,  and  yet  we  are  as  well 
aware  as  are  our  hearers  that  we  are  lying. 
In  spite  of  all  good  intentions,  we  are  for- 
ever following  and  applauding  the  tyrant  in 
his  feathers  and  forgetting  the  toiling  mice  inj 
their  furs.  So,  to-day ;  so,  yesterday ;  so  it 
will  always  be;  and  the  injustice  of  it  flour- 


96     The  Witchery  of  Winter 

ishes  as  the  weeds  that  we  are  ever  scotching 
and  never  kill. 

The  summer's  heat  and  the  summer's 
shade  are  gone,  but  the  solid  earth  remains. 
The  footprints  of  a  ramble  of  long  ago  are 
still  to  be  traced  along  this  woodland  path, 
and  I  stand  in  these  again.  The  trees,  the 
shrubbery,  the  hill-side  and  meadow,  the 
winding  creek  and  resistless  river,  are  all  still 
here, — changed,  yet  the  same.  Nor  do  I 
alone  represent  the  life  of  this  charmed  spot. 
There  are  birds  about  me, — birds  that  whis- 
per glad  tidings  as  they  chirp  near  by ;  birds 
that  pipe  a  merry  strain  whenever  the  bare 
twigs  rattle ;  birds  that  scream  their  delight 
from  cloud-land.  In  all  that  I  see  and  hear 
there  is  no  trace  of  the  fault-finder's  peevish 
moan.  All  is  hearty  ;  all  is  cheerful.  The 
world  is  accepted  as  it  is,  and  it  is  no  vain 
conceit  to  speak  with  confidence  of  the 
witchery  of  winter. 


COMPANY  AND  SOLIfUDE 
I. 

"COMPANY." 

WHEN  I  was  a  child,  there  was  no 
word  in  our  language  more  ex- 
pressive to  me  of  all  that  was  mildly  terri- 
ble than  "  company."  It  meant  unreason- 
able restraint,  and  the  necessity  of  spotless 
clothing,  a  painfully  stiff  collar,  and  clean 
hands, — everything,  in  fa£l,  that  a  small  boy 
of  average  health  and  spirits  naturally  de- 
tests. Then,  too,  there  was  the  showing 
off  of  infantile  accomplishments,  and  a  gen- 
eral disarrangement  of  every  childish  idea  of 
comfort.  I  learned  at  five  to  detest  "  com- 
pany," and  at  fifty  I  have  not  outgrown  the 
impressions  then  acquired.  I  do  not  like 
company.  Not  that  I  am  afraid  of  strangers, 
nor  that,  being  a  householder,  I  am  inhospi- 
7  97 


98       Company  and  Solitude 

table ;  but  "  company" — well,  I  am  at  a  loss 
to  express  my  real  meaning.  I  remember 
an  old  neighbor,  an  uncouth  creature,  a  con- 
temporary of  my  grandfather,  who  was  ac- 
customed to  declare  that  a  brief  call  was  a 
"  vis,"  to  spend  the  day,  a  visit,  and  to  stay 
overnight,  a  visitation.  This  may  not  have 
been  original  with  him,  but  it  was  a  pithy 
way  of  putting  the  matter,  and  has  been  my 
law  and  gospel  on  this  subject  ever  since. 

Of  what  earthly  use  is  "  company"  ?  You 
probably  see  your  neighbors  once  a  week, 
meeting  them  on  the  public  highways,  and 
if  you  nod  pleasantly,  and  speak  a  word  or 
two  of  the  weather  and  of  the  health  of  the 
family,  has  not  everything  been  done  that 
necessities  require  or  formality  can  reason- 
ably demand  ?  If  you  have  business  or  need 
information  that  others  can  give  you,  go  and 
ask  of  them.  Be  brief,  but  to  the  point,  and, 
leaving  with  what  is  desired,  carry  away  also 
their  blessing.  To  go  to  another's  house, 
to  request  of  its  inmates,  one  or  all,  to  sit 
for  half  an  hour  or  longer  and  listen  to  your 
platitudes,  and,  coming  away,  lie  to  them 
about  a  pleasant  call,  is  intolerable.  Yet 
there  are  thousands  who  do  this  daily.  Why 


Company  and  Solitude       99 

should  I  leave  my  occupation,  be  it  loafing 
even,  and  give  my  attention  to  some  man  or 
woman  who  is  thoughtless  enough  to  "  call"  ? 
The  actuating  motive  never  appears.  Much 
is  spoken  and  nothing  said.  I  receive  no 
worthy  thought  to  profit  by  or  increase  the 
probability  of  a  beatific  eternity.  The  famil- 
iar well-gnawed  bones  of  doctrine  fall  from 
the  devil's  table.  Usually  I  am  forced  to 
breathe,  at  such  a  time,  a  gossip-poisoned 
atmosphere.  This  "  call"  is  another's  idea 
of  civility,  and  I  am  compelled,  it  appears, 
to  be  a  vi&im  of  his  or  her  whim.  If  I 
refuse,  as  I  have  done  point-blank,  to  present 
myself,  I  am  called  a  boor  and  all  manner  of 
ugly  names.  Well,  is  it  not  better  to  be 
called  black  as  night,  and  know  that  you  have 
the  whiteness  of  mid-day  in  your  heart,  than 
to  be  called  civil,  while  you  are  cursing  the 
thoughtlessness  of  the  company  that  has 
called  ?  That  is  my  view  of  the  matter. 

The  world  professes  to  hold  in  righteous 
indignation  a  hypocrite ;  but  how  are  we  to 
escape  hypocrisy  if  we  become  the  slaves 
of  company  ?  It  has  often  been  said  that  the 
set  phrases  of  formal  social  customs  are  un- 
derstood by  everybody  and  no  harm  is  done. 


ioo     Company  and  Solitude 

Perhaps  so,  but  I  am  concerned  more  with 
the  harm  I  do  myself  than  with  that  I  cause 
to  others.  If  I  have  one  possession  above 
another  that  I  value,  it  is  my  time,  my  living, 
my  concerns  with  myself;  and  there  is  no 
surplusage  to  be  bestowed  upon  formalities 
that  bring  neither  pleasure  nor  profit  and  do 
not  redound  to  my  credit  in  any  way  in 
which  the  subject  can  be  looked  at.  I  insist 
that  there  is  nothing  churlish  in  this  view. 
I  have  not  those  in  mind  whom  I  call  my 
friends,  but  the  average  caller,  the  "  com- 
pany" that  is  dying — but,  alas,  never  dies — to 
know  what  your  most  secret  thoughts  have 
been  that  day,  so  that  he  or  she  may  an- 
nounce them  to  some  other  vidlim  of  his  or 
her  calling  list.  This  is  not  evidence  that  I 
am  averse  to  a  lively  chat  over  the  fence 
with  my  next-door  neighbor,  nor  that  I  do 
not  love  to  discuss  old  times  with  a  former 
playmate  when  we  meet.  All  such  occur- 
rences— and  they  have  an  added  charm  when 
happening  by  chance — are  delightful  and  of 
quite  another  chara&er :  they  are  as  honest, 
outspoken,  and  hearty  as  that  sweetest  music 
in  the  world,  the  laughter  of  childhood. 
The  frankness  of  a  pleasant  meeting  is  as 


Company  and  Solitude     101 

refreshing  and  soul-satisfying  as  the  formali- 
ties of  "  company"  are  arid  and  degrading. 

We  had  company  to-day.  I  was  asked 
for, — as  if  one  viftim  were  not  sufficient, — 
and,  as  often  happens,  declaring  I  would  not 
appear,  appeared.  Luckily  my  memory  was 
in  working  order,  and  I  put  it  to  a  severe 
test.  Now,  an  hour  after  the  plague  had 
ceased  to  trouble  by  its  presence,  the  soft, 
sibilant,  loud  whisperings  remain.  The 
company  took  just  fifty  minutes  to  inform 
me  that  I  was  looking  well ;  that  I  was 
looking  extremely  well ;  that  I  never  looked 
better.  Pleasant  sounds,  doubtless,  are  such 
words  to  those  who  are  really  ill,  notwith- 
standing their  inapplicability ;  but  I  am  in 
ordinary  health.  I  was  also  told  that  the 
weather  had  been  unpleasant,  very  unpleas- 
ant, positively  disagreeable ;  and,  as  I  had 
not  been  house-bound  for  a  month,  this  was 
scarcely  complimentary  to  my  powers  of 
observation.  All  the  while,  I  never  opened 
my  lips,  unmoved  by  madam's  black  looks, 
which  I  interpreted  aright.  The  company 
were  persistent,  and  attacked  me  from  an- 
other quarter :  Did  I  think  we  should  have 
pleasant  weather  soon?  I  remained  silent 


1O2     Company  and  Solitude 

for  a  moment,  and  was  about  to  reply,  when 
another  question  was  put :  Will  there  be  a 
pleasant  summer  ?  This  was  somewhat  stag- 
gering. How  was  I  to  know  the  chara&er 
of  the  coming  season  ?  I  smiled,  hypocriti- 
cally of  course,  and  replied  that  I  hoped  for 
pleasant  weather  in  the  next  world,  but  did 
not  dare  to  prophesy  as  to  this.  The  fools 
tittered.  I  supposed  I  had  scored  a  success 
at  meeting  formal  company,  and  was  heaving 
an  inaudible  sigh  of  relief,  when  the  guests 
rose  to  depart;  but  it  seems  that  my  part 
was  not  well  done,  and  madam  scolded  me 
for  rudeness.  I  am  convinced,  now,  that  I 
cannot  become  a  successful  formalist,  and  I 
understand  that  our  callers  agree  with  this. 
They  call  me  a  boor  and  other  significant 
names ;  but  then,  out  of  the  parlor  I  am 
abundantly  happy,  and  doubtless  my  days 
will  not  be  shortened  by  my  lack  of  appre- 
ciation of  their  valueless  inanities. 

Is  it,  seriously  speaking,  necessary  for  one 
to  part  company  with  a  bird  or  a  flower,  to 
leave  the  open  air  for  a  stuffy  room  and  miss 
music  and  beauty,  that  a  caller  may  have 
opportunity  to  assure  you  that  two  and  two 
make  four  ?  Even  if  the  caller  has  knowl- 


Company  and  Solitude     103 

edge — his  alone,  it  may  be — that  he  is  will- 
ing to  impart,  how  is  he  to  know  that  I  will 
value  it  ?  It  may  be  that  I  am  wrong, — that 
such  a  course,  if  general,  would  check  the 
world's  progress ;  but  I  am  not  convinced. 
Who,  indeed,  are  those  that  have  furthered 
progress  so  far, — the  chattering  gad-about, 
the  caller,  our  "  company,"  or  those  who 
value  their  time  and  are  not  willing  to  sit 
idly  by  and  be  talked  at  by  anybody  and 
everybody  who  happens  to  call  ? 

An  honest  meeting  of  man  with  man  is 
usually  an  accidental  one.  Often,  seeing 
them  approach,  for  the  lane  is  long  and 
straight,  I  have  hastened  to  the  hill-side,  to 
be  rid  of  the  obnoxious  callers.  Here,  if  in 
summer,  I  let  the  songs  of  thrushes  entertain 
me,  or,  in  winter,  listen  to  the  titmouse,  that 
is  always  cheerful,  or  watch  the  long  lines 
of  roostward-flying  crows.  I  have  never  yet 
wearied  of  this,  or  found  such  conditions  to 
lose  their  suggestiveness.  When  to-day's 
company  had  gone  and  madam's  lefture  was 
ended,  I  hurried  to  the  farm's  most  unfre- 
quented corner  and  rested  at  the  mossy  stile, 
over  which  so  few  pass  these  later  years,  for 
the  once  well-worn  foot-path  is  now  torn 


104     Company  and  Solitude 

yearly  by  the  plough.  While  I  tarried,  I 
was  hailed  by  a  hearty  man  who  lives  close 
to  nature. 

"Have  you  heard  the  eagles  scream  to- 
day ?"  he  asked. 

"  No,"  I  replied :  "  are  there  any  about  ?" 

"  Do  you  think  I  would  ask  you  what  I 
did,  if  it  was  an  impossible  thing  ?"  he  re- 
plied, with  a  trace  of  anger  in  his  voice. 

I  was  deservedly  snubbed.  Here  was  a 
man  who  knew  every  nook  and  corner  of  the 
land,  every  tree,  bush,  flowering  plant,  beast, 
and  bird;  and  to  think  that  I  should  have 
expressed  a  doubt  of  his  sincerity !  That 
trifling  "  company"  had  been  too  much  for 
me.  I  looked  my  regrets,  and  the  old  man 
read  my  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  in  his  usual  earnest  man- 
ner, "  there  was  a  grand  pair  of  eagles  here 
at  sunrise,  and  they  screamed  until  the  hill- 
side trembled  with  their  rage.  They  soared 
until  out  of  sight,  and  then  came  swooping 
down  until  the  tree-tops  were  moved  by 
their  wings,  and  all  the  time  one  or  the  other 
screamed  till  you  would  have  thought  their 
throats  would  crack.  Not  another  bird  along 
the  hill-side  opened  its  bill.  It  was  as  still 


Company  and  Solitude     105 

as  winter,  till  they  were  gone,  miles  down 
the  river ;  and  then  what  a  chatter  the  crows 
set  up !  You  might  have  thought  they  had 
driven  the  eagles  off  and  were  crowing  over 
their  viftory." 

This  is  such  knowledge  as  I  am  ever  ready 
to  receive.  I  am  always  on  the  lookout  for 
eagles,  and  my  friend  has  been  more  fortu- 
nate than  I.  His  wealth  he  is  ready  to  di- 
vide, seeing  it  does  not  diminish  by  so  doing. 
I  am  the  gainer,  yet  he  is  not  a  loser.  Such 
meetings  make  me  thankful  I  am  not  alone  in 
the  world.  But  what  had  I  to  offer  as  an 
equivalent  ?  He  had  given  me  also  of  his 
time,  which  I  knew  was  held  at  its  full  value 
by  him,  and  was  I  to  receive  this  as  a  gift  ? 
I  was  humbled  by  the  thought  that  I  had  not 
power  to  make  adequate  return,  and  would 
at  least  have  admitted  as  much  ;  but  my  friend 
could  read  me  as  he  did  the  wild  world  about 
him,  and  said,  as  he  turned  to  leave  me, "  You 
are  glad  to  know  that  I  have  seen  eagles  to- 
day, and  I  am  glad  to  be  able  to  tell  you." 

His  recompense  was  the  knowledge  of 
having  been  of  use  to  another.  I  had  not 
thought  of  that.  Such  people  have  no  time 
to  call ;  for  them,  there  are  no  moments  to 


106     Company  and  Solitude 

be  spent  in  formulating  phrases  that  are 
empty;  but  meeting  you  while  on  their 
way,  as  here  at  the  stile,  they  bless  you  with 
weighty  words  and  leave  you  wiser  than  be- 
fore. We  cannot  "  keep"  such  company ; 
it  is  vouchsafed  to  no  one  as  an  e very-day 
feature  of  his  life ;  but  it  may  sparkle  through 
his  years,  here  and  there,  like  flakes  of  gold 
in  quartz. 

I  have  argued  in  this  strain  for  years,  find- 
ing no  one  to  agree ;  yet  every  year  strengthens 
my  conclusions.  Of  course,  folks  will  not 
cease  to  "  call"  until  the  crack  of  doom,  and 
many  will  be  on  their  way  to  their  neighbors 
when  they  hear  it.  They  hold  themselves 
as  philanthropic  people,  but  I  would  that 
every  one  was  to  a  greater  extent  misan- 
thropic rather.  Speaking  for  myself,  it  is  a 
positive  pleasure,  whenever  I  think  of  it, 
that  I  grew  up  a  savage.  The  plain,  modest, 
and  compact  flower  of  misanthropy  has  been 
too  long  neglecled.  Plant  it  where  it  will 
be  most  often  seen,  and  let  its  blossoms  in- 
fluence our  lives  to  a  greater  symmetry. 


Company  and  Solitude     107 


II. 

SOLITUDE. 

"  Distrust  mankind  :  with  your  own  heart  confer, 
And  dread  even  there  to  find  a  flatterer.'* 

"  The  foremost  object  in  my  experience 
has  always  been  the  ninth  letter  of  the  alpha- 
bet," I  remarked. 

"  Then  you  are  a  crabbed  creature, 
wrapped  up  in  yourself,"  my  companion 
replied. 

"  For  once  you  have  told  the  truth  ;  now 
leave  me,  please." 

What  would  this  room  be  if  there  were 
others  in  it?  Merely  a  very  plain,  bare- 
walled  affair;  a  shelter,  for  it  is  raining 
now,  and  but  little  else.  But  luckily  I  am 
alone,  and  through  the  distorting  panes  of 
greenish  glass,  through  which  the  light  of 
sunrise  in  an  earlier  century  penetrated,  I 
look  out  upon  a  pretty  world.  I  am  alone, 
and  the  crowd  about  me  hampers  every 
movement;  but  did  so  much  as  a  single 
human  being  open  the  door,  and  I  should  be 


lo8     Company  and  Solitude 

alone  in  quite  another  sense.  In  what  men 
call  solitude  I  have  all  my  friends  about  me ; 
when  in  man's  presence,  all  too  often,  I  am 
literally  alone. 

I  fancy  that  all  work  of  value  or  even  of 
idle  interest  to  the  world  is  done  in  secret. 
We  can  praise  or  blame,  admire  or  detest  a 
crowded  street ;  but  what  we  wish  others  to 
know  must  come  to  us  and  be  recorded  when 
the  crowded  street  is  a  mere  matter  of  mem- 
ory. The  ghosts  of  the  dead  centuries  can 
peep  over  my  shoulders  and  peer  from  every 
corner  of  this  little  room  without  disconcert- 
ing me,  but  let  some  mortal  in  the  flesh  open 
the  door  and  my  thoughts  are  as  far  off  as 
these  same  ghosts  that  but  a  moment  ago 
were  grinning  at  me  and  I  grinning  back  at 
them. 

It  is  safe  to  love  a  ghost.  Though  there 
is  a  delightful  individuality  discernible,  still 
they  are  much  like  the  clay  in  the  potter's 
hands :  we  can  shape  them  within  reason- 
able bounds.  Exhilarating  thought,  too ;  I 
have  not  yet  met  a  ghost  that  was  not  a 
gentleman.  Of  ghosts  of  the  other  sex  I 
know  nothing,  having  never  seen  one.  The 
former  are  familiar,  they  are  of  easy  man- 


Company  and  Solitude     109 

ners,  a  little  roguish  at  times,  and  a  bit  in- 
quisitive, yet  never  that  terror  of  the  flesh, 
obtrusive.  Intuition  never  deserts  the  ghost. 
It  reads  your  thoughts  before  it  enters  your 
presence,  and  knows  to  the  second  when  to 
come  and  go.  These  jolly  creatures  are  my 
best  friends,  and  how  can  any  one  be  alone 
when  such  company  is  ever  at  hand,  asking 
no  other  condition  than  that  your  fleshly 
brethren  shall  keep  in  the  background?  I 
have  accepted  their  terms,  and  so,  while  I 
love  myself  above  all  others  in  the  worldly 
sense,  and  to  all  appearances  am  concerned 
with  my  own  thoughts  only,  and  my  own 
whims  and  their  gratification,  yet  my  troop 
of  friends — unseen  by  others'  eyes — are 
always  actually  at  hand  or  within  the  reach 
of  an  unworded  wish. 

Is  this  not  a  fitting  condition  ?  What 
can  be  more  ghost-like  than  an  unspoken 
thought?  It  is  not  the  less  a  faft  because 
unseen  and  unheard.  It  may  not  travel  to 
my  neighbor  and  prod  his  brain  to  an  addi- 
tional activity,  but  how  quickly  it  flies  to 
the  surrounding  outlook  and  beckons  to  me 
a  dozen  or  a  hundred  ghosts  and  bids  them 
attend  upon  me  !  This  makes  a  monarch  of 


no     Company  and  Solitude 

a  thoughtful  man.  See  to  it  that  you  are 
a  merry  monarch,  and  your  happiness  is 
assured. 

There  is  no  one  beside  myself  in  this 
small  room,  and  we  are  given  to  selecting 
the  most  prominent  objects  when  in  search 
of  subject-matter  for  book  or  essay,  and  both 
would  often  be  the  better  were  the  minor 
matters  more  in  evidence.  The  hero,  how- 
ever great,  must  have  ground  to  stand  upon ; 
but  this  is  often  forgotten,  and  characters 
come  and  go  in  the  printed  pages  as  if  such 
a  little  matter  as  the  world  at  large  was  of 
no  importance  whatever.  But  to-night  I 
am  alone,  and  choose  myself  in  preference 
to  others,  if  I  find  anything  to  say.  I  do 
not  objeft.  That  ninth  letter  of  the  alpha- 
bet always  appealed  very  strongly  to  me. 
It  is  like  a  cherished  personal  possession, 
and  whatever  may  be  my  occupation  at  the 
time,  or  wherever  I  happen  to  be,  this  same 
blessed  /  is  the  most  prominent  feature  of 
place  or  circumstance.  Whether  or  not  any- 
thing to  your  I  am  everything  to  myself. 
The  ninth  letter  and  the  writer  are  nearer 
than  twins, — we  are  one, — and  never  was 
there  a  closer  relationship  or  one  that  was 


Company  and  Solitude     ill 

unruptured  by  disagreement  or  marred  by 
misunderstanding.  Whatever  the  limits  of 
my  knowledge,  I  know  myself.  What  the 
world  is,  what  life  is,  can  only  be  judged  by 
me  through  my  senses.  What  you  tell  me 
really  means  nothing.  I  see  with  my  eyes, 
hear  with  my  ears,  touch  with  my  hands,  and 
distinguish  odors  with  my  nose.  Your  ex- 
periences can  be  nothing  to  me,  except  as  I 
compare  your  report  of  them  with  my  own 
impressions.  As  you  may  say  of  yourself, 
I  say  of  mine :  wherever  I  am,  there  is  the 
centre  of  the  world  ;  and  when  I  am  alone,  I 
am  the  only  man  in  existence.  If  another's 
proximity  is  not  made  known  to  my  senses, 
how  may  I  know  that  you  are  still  on  the 
earth  ?  Your  world  may  pass  away  and  mine 
remain.  What  your  world  is  it  does  not 
concern  me  to  know;  but  my  world  does 
fill  all  my  thought,  and,  projecting  myself 
therein,  am  filled  with  its  direft  impressions 
upon  my  senses,  myself, — that  entity  which 
is  most  forcibly  expressed  by  a  simple  let- 
ter, I.  « 

There  would  be  less  jangling  in  this  world     fj 
if  individuals  were  given  to  placing  more     [ 
emphasis  upon   their   own  expressions,   by      , 


112     Company  and  Solitude 

continually  reminding  the  hearer  that  it  is 
himself  who  speaks,  and  speaks  only  for 
himself.  I  think,  I  believe,  I  know ;  good, 
wholesome  expressions,  these,  that  lead  to  no 
misconceptions.  But  it  is  claimed  that  exces- 
sive egotism  is  tiresome,  is  inelegant,  is  evi- 
dence  of  limited  intellectuality.  Well,  it  is 
honesty,  it  is  truthfulness,  it  is  the  operation 
of  your  own  mind,  boundless  or  limited.  We 
were  better  off,  as  prehistoric  folk,  when 
selfishness  was  a  more  marked  feature  of 
humanity.  The  mischief  of  egotism  that 
has  been  claimed  arises  from  misconception 
of  self,  the  incurable  malady  of  feeble  minds  ; 
of  such  as  the  law  gives  freedom  at  twenty- 
one,  but  which  are  truly  infantile  at  three- 
score and  ten.  Have  you  encountered  no 
such  minds?  Do  not  speak  hastily.  An 
affirmative  answer  is  an  admission  that  you 
are  blind. 

To  do  ourselves  justice,  to  fit  us  to  our 
niche,  so  that  no  vacant  space  shows  about 
us,  we  must  be  busy  with  ourselves,  and  de- 
mand K>  be  excused  when  weaklings  call  for 
a  division  of  our  strength.  I  did  not  invite 
myself  to  this  world.  He  would  be  a  fool 
who  should  do  that,  if  it  were  possible ;  but 


Company  and  Solitude     113 

here  I  am.  The  fa£l  of  the  entity's  presence 
is  incontrovertible,  and  what  does  it  mean  ? 
I  do  not  know.  I  do  not  care.  No  reason 
for  existence  ever  became  apparent,  but  in 
time  the  I  within  me  comes  to  the  fore  and 
overshadows  all  other  fa&s,  and,  concerned 
with  it,  I  struggle  to  keep  my  footing  on  a 
slippery  earth,  and,  doing  so,  the  thought 
continually  wells  up,  What  of  this  earth 
about  me  ?  Its  multiplicity  of  details  is  be- 
wildering, ofttimes  exasperating,  and  my  own 
Ego  has  learned  to  shun  the  complex  and 
seek  the  simple,  to  avoid  the  formal  and  clasp 
hands  with  the  true.  There  is  nothing  pe- 
culiar in  this,  but  the  same  end  is  sought  by 
different  routes  or  methods.  Nobody  really 
likes  the  shams  of  this  world,  and  yet  how 
much  ground  is  planted  in  the  undesirable 
crop !  How  came  such  things  into  exist- 
ence ?  The  ever-growing  complexity  of  the 
problem  of  human  life  has  much  to  do  with 
it,  I  suppose ;  perhaps  all  to  do  with  it. 
The  wandering  away  from  a  wholesome  to  a 
feverish  condition  of  affairs,  from  the  near- 
ness of  nature  to  proximity  with  the  unnatu- 
ral, has  led  to  distortion,  if  not  of  body,  of 
mind,  and  the  asymmetrical  growth  resulted 


114     Company  and  Solitude 

finally  in  the  few  being  served  by  the  many  ; 
the  idle  becoming  the  lords  of  the  busy ;  the 
rich,  the  tyrants  of  the  poor.  There  are 
upturnings  at  times  and  healthful  readjust- 
ments. So  ugly  as  all  this  appears,  it  might 
be  worse ;  but  the  sham,  the  unreal,  the  ab- 
solutely false,  these  pass  too  often  for  the 
real,  the  beautiful,  and  the  true,  and  the 
world  does  not  seem  aware  that  it  is  hum- 
bugged. The  indifferent  individual — the  in- 
fant of  mature  years,  so  to  speak — accepts 
pinchbeck  for  gold,  rhinestones  for  diamonds, 
asking  only  for  glitter,  and  indifferent  to  the 
source.  The  fools,  unfortunates  through 
Nature's  design  or  indifference,  can,  and  not 
infrequently,  successfully  pose  as  the  favor- 
ites of  Erudition,  and,  stealing  others'  labors, 
be  credited  with  learning  which  they  do  not 
possess  and  awarded  honors  to  which  they 
are  not  entitled.  The  individual  that  by 
chance  catches  the  expressions  of  those  in 
distant  lands  and  repeats  them  here  as  the 
outcomings  of  his  own  brain  is  all  too  com- 
mon. This  is  a  diseased  condition  that  has 
found  a  nidus  in  the  overcrowded  centres  of 
the  world.  We  have  heard  much  of  degen- 
eration of  late,  and  a  great  hue  and  cry  against 


Company  and  Solitude     115 

the  suggestion,  but  the  world  in  some  re- 
spefts  is  worse,  not  better,  than  it  appears, 
and  many  an  individual  with  a  goodly  ap- 
pearance is  thoroughly  rotten  at  the  core. 

"  Who  cares  what  you  think,  or  say,  or 
are  ?"  my  neighbor  asks. 

"  I  do,"  I  reply  :  "  it  is  I  who  is  talking 
to  myself."  If  you  care  to  hear,  listen ;  if 
not,  turn  a  deaf  ear.  I  am  not  intruding 
upon  your  notice,  nor  desire  to  figure  in  your 
life  even  as  a  shadow  crosses  your  sunshine 
and  is  gone.  The  truth  is,  you  intruded. 
You  broke  the  silence  by  your  uncalled-for 
question.  You  asked  me  to  speak,  and,  as 
usual,  have  only  myself  about  which  to 
converse.  But  while  you  tarry,  let  us  be 
neighborly  for  a  moment,  and  not,  like  wan- 
dering atoms  in  emptied  space,  kick  each 
other  into  different  directions.  However 
wrapped  up  in  one's  self,  we  can  be  of  mu- 
tual advantage.  You  can  profit  by  my  blun- 
ders ;  I,  by  yours. 

The  storm  increases  in  violence  as  night 
draws  on  apace,  and  I  have  now  no  ghosts  to 
cheer  me  nor  desire  to  call  them  up.  Even 
they  have  sought  shelter;  and  more  than 
ever  it  is  a  fitting  time  to  take  down  "  Wai- 


n6     Company  and  Solitude 

den"  and  read  the  fifth  chapter.  Thoreau 
was  in  the  highest  sense  an  egotist,  and  so, 
necessarily,  a  lover  of  solitude.  This  is  not 
taking  a  pessimistic  view  concerning  ourselves 
or  others.  Our  limitations  call  for  isolation 
that  we  may  do  ourselves  justice,  far  more 
frequently  than  our  supposed  needs  call  for 
company ;  and  unless  there  is  solitude  at 
command  and  full  confidence  in  our  strength, 
we  leave  the  world  as  we  found  it,  so  far  as 
our  presence  in  it  is  concerned.  Why  we 
should  care  to  have  it  otherwise  is  the  most 
strange  of  all  problems  that  vex  our  sojourn. 
It  is  a  serious  matter,  making  life  less  en- 
durable, to  be  plagued  with  ambition.  Why 
I  sit  on  a  torturing  four-legged  chair  at  my 
desk  when  there  is  an  easy  rocker  front  of 
the  andirons  is  not  solvable :  it  is  simply  a 
faft,  and  an  extremely  disagreeable  one  at 
that.  But  existence  becomes  less  serious  if 
we  can  take  pleasure  in  solitude  and  toy  with 
the  puzzles  that  Nature  dangles  in  front  of 
our  faces.  Such  hours  of  existence  gild  a 
gloomy  world ;  but  how  few,  like  Thoreau, 
can  extract  the  sweets  of  a  quiet  evening  and 
be  honestly  glad  that  they  are  living  !  Some 
of  his  distinguished  critics  could  not,  or 


Company  and  Solitude     117 

there  would  not  be  such  wide-spread  mis- 
conception of  the  man.  To  most  of  us  he 
was,  and  will  always  be,  an  enigma,  and  the 
more  so,  in  that  petty  spite  on  the  part  of 
greatness  strove  to  misrepresent  him.  In 
face  of  such  conditions  do  we  "  knock  our- 
selves down,"  as  a  writer  recently  said  in 
pointing  out  the  arrogance  of  one  critic  who 
presumed  too  much  when  he  essayed  to  com- 
ment on  such  a  subject.  Even  a  professional 
critic  can  get  beyond  his  depth,  and  Lowell 
got  far  beyond  his,  and,  worse  than  mere 
failure,  he  seems  to  have  forgotten  an  earlier 
essay  full  of  praise,  and  in  the  later  screed 
failed  to  conceal  the  true  animus  that  moved 
him.  But  all  is  well :  Thoreau,  the  lover 
of  solitude,  the  sane  egotist,  fills  our  lives 
more  and  more,  and  leads  us  to  a  better  con- 
ception of  the  world  about  us. 


OVERDOING   THE  PAST 


ARE  we  not  overdoing  history  and  neg- 
lefting  the  present  moment?  Peri- 
odical literature  is  overflowing  with  dilu- 
tions, more  or  less  weak,  of  the  elaborate 
biographies  of  great  men.  There  is  no  time 
allowed  us  to  consider  the  living  present 
because  of  the  claims  of  a  dead  past.  We 
have  ceaselessly  rung  in  our  ears  the  wonder- 
ful doings  of  this  or  that  hero :  how  he,  being 
successful,  saved  his  country  ;  how  he,  being 
defeated,  the  occurrence  of  continental  disas- 
ter was  prevented.  This  is  all  rank  rubbish. 
The  world  is  too  powerful  for  any  one  man 
to  absolutely  control  any  important  portion 
of  it.  Even  the  present  Czar  has  his  limita- 
tions. It  is  mere  assumption  to  say  that 
England  would  have  crushed  this  country  had 
the  Revolution  failed.  We  are  taught  to 
despise  the  Tories  of  1776,  but  their  argu- 
ments were  worth  listening  to,  and  the  loy- 
118 


Overdoing  the  Past        119 

alist  that  doubted  the  loud-mouthed  patriot- 
ism of  Sam  Adams  was  not  wholly  a  fool. 
England,  later,  would  not  have  disappeared 
from  the  map  of  Europe  had  Napoleon 
gained  Waterloo.  There  is  no  man  living 
who  can  prove  that  the  world  was  the  gainer 
by  the  a&ual  results  of  the  world's  great 
contests.  It  is  not  impossible  that  we  might 
have  gained  more  had  the  opposite  occurred. 
It  is  a  matter  of  speculation  only.  What 
our  forbears  did,  if  delayed,  might  have  been 
better  done  by  their  descendants ;  and  what 
they  failed  to  do,  believing  it  a  terrible 
calamity,  has  never  resulted  in  the  direful 
conditions  they  predicted.  The  world  works 
on  in  a  pretty  even  way,  though  millions  of 
fretful  creatures  hurry  to  and  fro  as  if  its 
weight  were  on  their  shoulders.  What  the 
man  of  to-day  exults  over  we  may  deplore 
to-morrow,  and  that  condition  of  affairs  over 
which  he  grieves  to-day  we  may  look  upon 
to-morrow  as  a  blessing.  We  overrate  the 
importance  of  individualities ;  we  underrate 
the  world  in  its  entirety.  We  can  draw 
endless  conclusions  from  the  lessons  of  the 
past,  but  we  cannot  truthfully  proclaim  any 
one  of  them  as  a  demonstration.  We  can 


120        Overdoing  the  Past 

amuse  ourselves  with  peering  into  the  future, 
as  the  belated  traveller  peers  into  the  darkness 
before  him,  but  we  cannot  speak  with  accu- 
racy as  to  what  we  see. 

To  return  to  current  literature.  Should 
we  not  concern  ourselves  more  with  what  is 
daily  transpiring,  and  less  with  what  has  been 
or  might  have  been  ? 

Is  not  the  importance  of  history  overdrawn 
when  it  is  held  up  so  closely  to  our  faces  that 
we  cannot  see  what  a  bright  world  there  is 
behind  it  ?  Does  it  not  begoggle  our  eyes  so 
that  the  Present  is  robbed  of  its  beauty  ? 
The  value  of  history  is  unquestionable,  but 
its  overvaluation  is  a  greater  misfortune  than 
that  our  yesterdays  should  forever  be  utter 
blanks  in  our  lives.  Then,  too,  the  manner 
of  these  historical  presentments  is  open  to 
criticism.  Their  authors  are  too  given  to 
distort  a  fa£t  for  the  sake  of  rhetorical  flourish, 
and  every  pifture  of  their  favorites — with- 
out one  single  exception — is  painted  in  the 
most  glowing  colors.  Their  heroes  verge 
on  the  angelic,  and  yet  not  one  of  them  but 
was  somewhere,  somehow,  at  some  time, 
miserably  weak.  The  human  frame  is  no  fit 
cage  for  an  angelic  spirit,  and  the  historical 


Overdoing  the  Past        121 

essayists  of  to-day,  that  hint  at  such  things 
as  of  the  past,  force  Candor  to  exclaim, 
Lord,  Lord,  how  this  world  is  given  to 
lying ! 

The  correction  of  all  this  is  the  art  of 
appreciation  of  our  immediate  surroundings, 
and  an  avoidance,  as  of  a  pestilence,  of  de- 
pressing retrospeftion.  As  it  is  the  atmos- 
phere that  is  now  entering  our  »lungs  that 
gives  us  life,  so  let  it  be  the  sights  and  sounds 
and  deeds  of  the  passing  moment  that  give 
us  joy.  It  is  the  rose  on  the  bush  this  bright 
morning  and  the  song  of  the  wild  bird  that 
sounds  across  the  fields,  that  bid  me  pause 
to  look  and  listen.  Two  centuries  ago  my 
people  saw  and  heard  the  same  flowers  and 
birds,  bat  does  such  a  thought  really  add  to 
the  present  pleasure  ?  If  you  permit  your- 
self to  drift  with  the  backward  current  of 
retrospection,  that  moment  you  become  blind 
and  deaf,  or  catch  but  a  fleeting  glimpse  of 
some  poor  ghost,  or  hear  perchance  the  faint- 
est echo  of  some  dead  song.  Why  press  your 
ear  to  the  ground  to  fancy  you  deteft  the 
footfalls  of  preceding  greatness  ?  What  mat- 
ters it  whether  Washington's  boots  creaked 
or  not  ?  Is  there  not  more  in  the  tramp  of 


122        Overdoing  the  Past 

the  millions  who  are  battling  as  nobly  to- 
day ?  It  is  not  belittling  the  heroes  of  other 
days — and  it  matters  nothing  if  it  is — to 
claim  for  the  present  equally  heroic  men. 
The  condition  may  not  arise  to  bring  them 
to  the  fore,  but  who  shall  say  that  they  do 
not  exist  and  merely  wait  the  trumpet  call 
of  opportunity  ?  Never  a  hero  fell,  but  an 
equal  was  ready  to  replace  him.  What  is  a 
hero  ?  A  man  equal  to  the  hour's  emer- 
gency, and  how  many  emergencies  have  not 
been  met?  No  such  pernicious  twaddle 
finds  its  way  to  the  printed  page  as  the 
idolatrous  laudation  of  those  who  have  been 
borne  to  high  places  by  circumstances  they 
could  not  control,  and  gazed  upon  by  all 
mankind ;  idolatrous,  and  therefore  degrading 
so  far  as  it  leads  to  the  belief  that  among 
ourselves  there  is  no  such  greatness ;  that  the 
glory  of  humanity  waxed  in  this  or  that  hero 
and  has  since  been  waning. 

"  I  cannot  agree,"  says  a  friend.  "  It  is 
the  function  of  the  daily  press  to  devote 
itself  to  the  man  of  the  moment.  But,  for 
heaven's  sake,  let  us  get  a  little  respite  from 
these  '  actualities'  when  we  pick  up  the  illus- 
trated monthly  magazines  !  For  my  part,  I 


Overdoing  the  Past        123 

should  like  to  have  George  Washington's  life 
retold  in  each  of  the  magazines  in  turn,  and 
then  retold  again  when  the  last  of  them  had 
printed  it.  The  value  of  keeping  Napoleon 
always  in  evidence  were  perhaps  less  obvious. 
Still,  in  those  aspe&s  of  his  character  in 
which  he  was  not  an  example,  he  was  a  tre- 
mendous warning.  The  day  has  not  yet 
come  when  we  can  afford  to  let  Washington 
sleep,  or  fail  to  profit  by  a  study  of  Napo- 
leon's rise  to  dictatorship."  And,  again,  he 
says,  "It  does  not  appear  whether  or  no 
Abraham  Lincoln  is  one  of  your  betes  noires. 
There  has  been  rather  more  about  him  in  the 
magazines  than  about  Washington  or  Bona- 
parte. To  be  sure,  he  has  been  dead  only  a 
third  of  a  century  ;  but  he  is  not  one  of  those 
'  who  are  striving  at  this  time  to  make  our 
lives  better  worth  the  living.'  Doubtless, 
though,  his  example  is  more  potent  for  good 
than  that  of  any  living  man.  I  should  like 
to  know  what  great  and  good  man  of  to-day 
the  magazines  have  neglefted,  after  all  ?" 

I  do  not  see  that  I  am  squelched  by 
Brother  Quill.  My  claim  is  that  biography 
should  be  written  for  the  benefit  of  the 
young  just  as  much  if  not  more  than  for  the 


124        Overdoing  the  Past 

delegation  of  the  old.  Nothing  can  im- 
prove or  affect  the  latter  ;  and  to  make  little 
gods  of  the  dead  is  hurtful,  because  the  living 
youth  knows  his  own  limitations  and  despairs 
becoming  as  good,  say,  as  George  Washing- 
ton, whereas  it  really  requires  but  little  effort 
to  be  quite  as  good  and  even  considerably 
better.  Mere  eulogy  and  parade  of  transcen- 
dent virtue  which  the  individual  discussed 
did  not  possess  is  rubbish.  Much  of  the 
current  magazine  matter  is  a  sort  of  goody- 
goody  biography  that  is  not  even  pleasant 
reading,  and  surely  not  profitable  because 
untrue, — that  is,  the  facts  are  so  stated  as  to 
give  a  wrong  impression.  What  we  want  is 
applied  biography,  not  a  mere  record  of  a 
man's  sayings  and  doings  ;  a  selection  thereof, 
with  their  application  to  the  present  day  and 
its  needs.  Essays  on  characters  are  better 
than  detailed  records  of  the  lives  of  Tom, 
Dick,  and  Harry. 

My  critic  hopes  to  silence  me  by  naming 
Lincoln.  Is  it  not  peculiarly  true  of  him 
that  we  need  a  guide  to  the  study  of  his 
career,  and  so  make  practicable  the  applica- 
tion of  the  secret  of  his  success  to  our  times? 
But  does  the  ponderous  picture-book,  with  a 


Overdoing  the  Past        125 

portrait  on  every  page,  and  even  portraits  of 
those  whose  back-yards  joined  the  rear  gar- 
den-lots of  his  first  cousins,  aid  us  any  ?  I 
admit  that  his  example  is  still  potent,  though 
he  has  been  dead  for  thirty  years,  but  it  is 
because  there  are  thousands  living  who  dis- 
tinctly remember  him.  Will  his  biographies, 
rewritten  a  century  hence,  as  we  now  have 
George  Washington  doled  out  to  us,  help  the 
young  reader  of  one  hundred  years  to  come  ? 
Not  a  bit  of  it.  It  behooves  us  to  consider 
our  own  steps  more  than  the  footprints  of 
those  who  have  gone  on  before.  Give  me 
the  passing  moment,  not  the  dead  past,  and, 
too,  let  us  think  just  a  little  less  of  the  prob- 
lematical future ;  it,  if  anything,  is  wholly 
fitted  to  take  care  of  itself. 

Another  of  my  critics  says,  "  If  there  are 
any  Washingtons  or  Lincolns  about  now, 
they  keep  themselves  exceedingly  close." 
They  certainly  do,  and  why  ?  Because  there 
is  not  enough  interest  taken  in  the  present  to 
make  them  show  forth  what  they  really  are. 
Now,  this  critic,  like  the  other,  is  an  editor, 
and  so  supposedly  infallible ;  but  I  doubt  if 
either  will  deny  that  there  are  not  men  for 
the  hour,  whatever  the  character  of  that 


126       Overdoing  the  Past 

hour.  The  existent  conditions  produce  the 
men  required  for  them,  and  when  the  de- 
mand is  for  heroes,  heroes  will  stand  forth. 
In  the  humdrum  conditions  of  the  present 
merely  money-getting  days,  of  what  earthly 
use  would  a  Washington  or  a  Lincoln  be  ? 
If  they  applied  their  talents  to  the  present, 
as  they  did  to  the  conditions  of  their  times, 
they  would  inevitably  take  the  fatal  step  from 
the  sublime  to  the  ridiculous. 

But  this  is  base  ingratitude,  some  one, 
having  the  Revolution  in  mind,  cries  out. 
These  men  fought  and  bled  for  our  liberties. 
Let  us  think  a  moment.  Is  this  charge  of 
ingratitude  as  serious  as  it  sounds  ?  How  do 
we  know  the  heroes  of  other  days  did  any- 
thing of  the  kind  ?  They  have  left  no  record 
of  great  concerns  as  to  their  great-grandchil- 
dren. They  did  concern  themselves  with 
their  children,  for  the  latter  were  then  very 
much  in  evidence ;  but  here  is  an  ugly  faft 
that  confronts  those  that  talk  of  ingratitude. 
Never  a  hero  but  was  concerned  more  about 
his  own  neck  than  about  the  necks  of  those 
to  come  after  him.  The  men  of  troublous 
times,  in  years  gone  by,  had  their  own  im- 
mediate interests,  and  were  necessarily  moved 


Overdoing  the  Past        127 

by  personal  considerations.  In  a  certain 
sense  they  were  selfish.  What  they  felt 
called  upon  to  do  required  courage,  but  it 
was  nothing  reckless.  They  were  shrewd. 
They  afted  upon  the  outcome  of  calm  con- 
sideration, choosing  what  they  believed  to  be 
the  lesser  of  two  evils  ;  and  it  is  sad  to  think 
that  had  not  success  attended  our  favorites, 
few  of  them  all  would  be  remembered  from 
year  to  year. 

Much  as  we  know,  we  have  yet  far  more 
to  learn,  and  this  condition  of  ignorance, 
which  dates  from  the  appearance  of  man  upon 
the  earth,  will  remain  until  the  last  human 
being  in  the  world  stands  wondering  what  is 
before  him.  This  prosy  faft  binds  us  very 
closely  to  the  present.  We  have,  or  ought 
to  have,  enough  to  do  with  the  demands  that 
each  day  makes  upon  us  ;  and  what  leisure  is 
permitted  us  is  most  wisely  spent  in  the 
study  of  what  our  contemporaries  are  doing. 
If  they  are  outreaching  us  in  any  endeavor, 
we  need  greater  energy  and  have  less  time  to 
dream ;  if  they  are  outspeeding  us,  what  do 
our  own  limbs  need  to  give  them  equal 
agility  ?  We  need  the  gold  being  dug  to-day 
more  than  the  speculations  of  archseologists 


128        Overdoing  the  Past 

concerning  prehistoric  miners.  The  pearls 
that  are  concealed  in  the  river  mussels  to-day 
are  worth  more  than  mere  knowledge  of  the 
caves  of  Golconda. 

The  past  can  claim,  with  reason,  grateful 
remembrance  on  our  part,  but  to  continually 
dream  over  it,  and  worry  even  that  we  cannot 
unmake  some  of  it,  is  worse  than  folly.  It 
can  afford  us  little  aid,  the  world's  conditions 
change  so  rapidly  and  radically,  and  he  who, 
whether  by  afts  or  by  suggestion,  by  example 
or  the  writing  of  a  book,  leads  us  to  be  up 
and  doing,  not  prone  and  dreaming,  does  the 
world  a  service.  Such  a  one  becomes  the 
successful  general  of  a  battle  of  farther-reach- 
ing consequence  than  he  wots  of.  Whether 
heroes  or  the  humblest  of  all  humble  folk,  it 
is  well  to  be  up  and  doing, — caring  less  for 
the  past  and  concerned  more  with  the  pres- 
ent. Make  history,  not  idly  worship  that 
which  has  been  made  by  others.  Be  not 
mere  hero-worshippers,  but  content  to  know 
that,  while  we  cannot  all  be  heroes,  no  life 
is  so  lowly  placed  that  it  may  not  be  heroic. 


DREAMING  BOB 


I. 


"  One  misty,  moisty  morning, 

When  cloudy  was  the  weather, 
I  met  an  old  man 
All  clad  in  leather." 

Mother  Goose. 

rT^HERE  is  often  so  little  of  real  interest 
JL  connected  with  the  present  that  it  is  a 
genuine  pleasure  to  meet  with  a  person  who 
can  carry  us  back  to  times  that  had  or  seem  to 
have  had  charms  that  now  are  lacking.  We 
have  lost  all  the  links  that  bound  us  to  the 
past  century,  and  the  first  decade  of  the 
present  one  does  not  to  so  great  a  degree 
suggest  "  ye  good  old  times."  Nevertheless, 
it  was  before  coal  was  used  as  fuel,  or  steam 
as  a  motive  power,  and  electricity  was  little 
more  than  a  name.  So  ran  my  thoughts  as  I 
approached  the  old  man  who  was  walking  to 

129 


130  Dreaming  Bob 

and  fro  over  a  wet  and  weedy  pasture  and 
occasionally  thrusting  a  long  staff  vigorously 
into  the  mud. 

He  was  so  promising  a  specimen  for  inter- 
viewing that  I  immediately  led  off  with  a 
question  which  I  hoped  would  lead  to  a  pro- 
longed conversation. 

"  What  are  you  looking  for  ?  a  pot  of 
gold  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Tortles." 

"  What  kind  of  turtles  ?  land  or  water  ?" 
I  asked,  not  feeling  disposed  to  be  snubbed, 
although  that  seemed  to  be  the  old  man's 
purpose. 

"Mud,"  he  growled,  even  more  impa- 
tiently than  before. 

"  Are  mud  turtles  good  to  eat  ?"  I  asked. 

"  No,  nor  to  look  at,"  he  replied. 

"  Then  what  do  you  want  with  them  ?" 
I  asked,  without  showing  a  trace  of  annoy- 
ance. 

The  old  man  now  looked  up,  and,  after 
staring  at  me  for  at  least  a  minute,  said, 
"  Young  man,  do  you  own  this  ma'sh  ?" 

"  I  do,"  I  replied,  with  a  smile. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  go  off?"  he  asked. 

"  Certainly  not,"  I  replied. 


Dreaming  Bob  131 

"  Then  will  you  please  let  me  alone  ?"  he 
asked,  still  staring  intently  at  me. 

"  Oh,  yes,  if  you  wish  it ;  but  I  saw  you 
were  a  stranger  and  an  old  man,  and  I  like 
to  talk  to  old  people,"  I  replied. 

"  Why  ?"  he  asked,  in  reply  to  my  last 
words,  with  a  slight  change  of  tone  indica- 
tive of  a  trace  of  amiability. 

"Because  they  usually  tell  me  of  days 
long  gone  by,  and  of  customs  now  almost 
forgotten,"  I  told  him,  adding,  "  Old  people, 
whether  they  do  or  not,  seem  to  know  more 
than  men  of  my  own  age,  and  do  know  more 
of  old  times,  of  course." 

"  Umph  !"  grunted  the  old  man,  and  then 
repeated  the  half-smothered  ejaculation  sev- 
eral times,  looking,  as  he  did  so,  towards  the 
three  huge  beeches  that  towered  above  the 
other  trees  on  the  wooded  hill-side  near  by. 
"  I'm  not  as  old  as  them  beeches,"  he  finally 
remarked. 

"  No,  I  should  say  not,"  I  replied. 

"  Then  why  don't  you  go  talk  to  them  ? 
I  heard  a  man  say  once  « there's  tongues  in 
trees.' " 

I  was  a  good  deal  taken  aback.  The  old 
man  was  getting  the  best  of  me,  but  my 


* 

132  Dreaming  Bob 

interest  in  him  was  growing,  and  I  did  not 
feel  like  beating  a  retreat.  Still,  I  could  not 
find  anything  to  say,  and  I  stood  before  him 
feeling  very  much  like  a  child  before  a 
stranger.  Meanwhile  he  continued  probing 
for  turtles,  but  eying  me  at  the  same  time,  I 
fancied.  At  last  I  hit  upon  one  more  ques- 
tion, and  rather  timidly  asked,  "  Do  you  live 
near  by  ?" 

"  Dog-town,"  he  muttered. 

"  As  far  as  that  ?"  I  asked,  with  some 
surprise. 

"Just  that  far;  and,  if  I  must  talk,  in- 
stead of  tortlin',  why,  let's  go  to  the  hill- 
foot  and  sit  down." 

"  All  right."  And,  with  this  brief  reply, 
I  followed  the  old  man  to  where  a  tree- 
trunk  lay  upon  the  ground,  and  there  we  sat 
down. 

"  Yes,  young  man,"  he  commenced,  "  I 
am  a  stranger  in  these  parts,  and  yet  I 
ain't." 

"  How's  that  ?"  I  asked. 

"  I  was  born  back  in  what's  called  '  Dog- 
town'  in  '20,  and  moved  off  when  not 
more'n  a  baby,  but  not  'fore  I  had  a  notion 
o'  what  the  place  was  like.  It's  been  rough- 


Dreaming  Bob  133 

and-tumble  ever  since,  and  now  I've  drifted 
back.  It's  all  changed  but  just  round  there, 
and  folks  ain't  yet  grudged  me  my  shanty." 

"  Do  you  live  alone  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Say,  please,  young  man,  don't  question 
too  close.  Do  I  live  alone  ?  '  Alone :' 
that's  a  word  that  means  too  much  for  me. 
I  don't  like  to  hear  it.  Yes,  I  live  by  my- 
self," said  the  old  man,  in  a  voice  quite  dif- 
ferent from  his  brief  words  when  on  the 
meadow. 

Before  I  could  find  anything  to  say,  he 
continued,  "  I  drifted  back  to  these  parts, 
and  there's  just  one  thing  I  want  to  do  'fore 
I  slip  up " 

"  Slip  up  ?"  I  repeated  after  him,  in  a  way 
that  showed  I  had  not  caught  his  meaning. 

"  Slip  up,  yes ;  die,  I  mean,"  he  said, 
somewhat  impatiently. 

"  Oh  !"  I  exclaimed,  adding,  "  Go  on  : 
I  won't  interrupt  again." 

"  Daddy  hid  what  he  had  somewhere  in 
the  woods,  and  never  let  on  to  me,  'cause  I 
was  too  small,  and  just  after  mammy  died  he 
slipped  up,  a  tree  he  was  a-cuttin*  fallin*  on 
him.  Bein'  alone,  some  folks  took  me,  and 
I  kind  o'  lost  all  notion  of  what  went  on 


134  Dreaming  Bob 

when  I  had  a  home,  till  years  and  years 
slipped  round,  and  then  somehow  it  all  come 
back  to  me,  sudden-like ;  but  Pd  been  a  fool 
all  the  time,  spendin*  one  day  what  I  earnt 
the  day  'fore,  and  it  was  hard  work  to  get 
anywhere  near  these  parts.  I  got  to  seein' 
in  dreams  just  where  daddy  put  what  he  had, 
but  what  I  see  now  round  here  ain't  what  it 
used  to  be." 

"  Not  around  Dog-town  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Yes,  it's  sort  o'  the  same  round  there, 
but  the  big  timber's  gone,  and  I  can't  place 
my  dreamin'  just  as  I  want  to.  That  dream 
ain't  no  common  one.  It's  just  a-goin'  back 
to  when  I  was  that  little  feller  as  toddled 
about  after  daddy  when  he  was  workin' 
about  home." 

"  Tell  me  how  the  place  looks  in  your 
dream.  Perhaps  I  can  help  you  out?"  I 
asked. 

"How  can  you?"  asked  the  old  man, 
giving  a  sudden  start,  and  facing  me. 

"  I  know  the  history  of  these  parts  pretty 
well,  and  have  some  old  deeds  and  docu- 
ments that  might  throw  light  on  the  sub- 
ject," I  replied,  with  much  earnestness. 

"  Old  deeds  and  dockiments :  them's  the 


Dreaming  Bob  135 

tools  lawyers  use  to  chisel  folks  out  o'  what 
they've  got.  They're  no  use,"  he  remarked, 
with  much  disappointment  in  his  voice  and 
manner. 

"  They're  not  always  that  bad,  either 
documents  or  lawyers,"  I  suggested.  "  But 
come,  what  sort  of  a  place  was  it  ?" 

"  You  see,"  he  continued,  as  if  not  in- 
tending to  give  me  a  direft  reply  or  one  at 
all,  "  I  never  saw  the  real  spot  to  know  it, 
and  daddy  never  told,  and  p'r'aps  he  hadn't 
nothin',  but  that  was  my  notion,  and  the 
spot  was  like  this  that  I  see  in  my  dream. 
There  was  a  big  chestnut,  and  a  squatty- 
like  black  oak,  and  an  ash-tree  kind  o'  bent 
over,  and  the  ground  sort  o*  high  and  mossy- 
like  between  'em.  I  go  there  every  night 
o'  my  life  in  my  dream,  and  just  as  I  find 
the  thing " 

"What  thing?"  I  asked. 

"It's  chest-like,  only  black,  and  brass 
nails  in  the  lid,"  he  explained. 

"  Where  was  your  father's  house  ?  Just 
where  did  it  stand  ?"  I  asked. 

"  That's  just  the  trouble.  I  got  nothin' 
to  go  by,  and  only  sort  o'  guess  it  stood 
where  the  big  clay-pits  now  is.  I've  squatted 


136  Dreaming  Bob 

near  as  I  could  get,  in  an  old  shanty,  and  go 
pokin'  round  when  folks  ain't  too  near  to  get 
curious ;  and,  by  thunder !"  exclaimed  the 
old  man,  with  great  energy,  "  I'm  a  fool  to 
give  it  all  away,  just  because  you  pestered  me 
out  on  the  ma'sh." 

"  I  can  keep  a  secret,  sir,"  I  remarked, 
with  some  show  of  dignity. 

"  'Course  you  can,  but  can  and  will  ain't 
twin  brothers  by  a  jugful,  young  man.  You 
can  keep  it,  but  are  you  goin'  to  ?"  he  asked, 
with  a  show  of  incredulity. 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  I'm  going  to." 

"  Well,  I  can't  call  'em  back,  and  if  I've 
thro  wed  the  fat  in  the  fire  it's  my  own 
fault,"  he  remarked,  rather  sorrowfully. 

"  But  you  haven't,"  I  assured  him,  adding, 
"  I  said  I  would  keep  your  secret.  Did  the 
people  digging  clay  ever  find  a  chest,  or 
haven't  you  asked  ?" 

"  If  they  did,  they  never  let  on,  for  I 
sort  o*  questioned  round  when  I  was  lookin' 
at  'em  dig,"  he  replied. 

"  Can  you  find  any  trace  of  the  trees  you 
see  in  your  dreams?"  I  asked. 

"  Only  one  big  chestnut  stump,  but  the 
ground  ain't  right  round  it,"  he  replied. 


Dreaming  Bob  137 

"  Did  you  dig  round  there  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Only  a  little ;  and  I  say  the  ground  ain't 
right.  It's  no  use,  and  I  guess  the  dream's 
devil's  work  just  to  fool  me.  Seems  a  pity 
he  can't  let  me  alone  on  airth,  seein'  he's 
got  a  mortgage  on  me  due  when  I  slip  up." 

"Don't  get  discouraged  yet  a  bit,"  I 
replied  :  "  go  on  looking  for  turtles,  and  to- 
morrow I'll  come  see  you." 

"  What  for  ?"  he  asked,  with  a  strange 
look,  as  if  he  was  both  glad  and  sorry. 

"  Because  I'd  like  the  fun  of  looking  for 
the  chest  you  dream  about,  and  I'll  look 
over  some  documents  in  the  mean  time  and 
see  when  the  big  woods  were  cut  off,  and  so 
on.  I'll  come  about  noon,  and  we'll  talk  it 
over  again."  I  said  this  in  a  way  to  show 
that  I  meant  it,  and  hoped  he  would  cheer 
up  a  little,  for  I  was  now  thoroughly  inter- 
ested, even  if  the  old  man  was  slightly  de- 
mented, which  I  did  not  think. 

"And  I'll  go  back  to  my  shanty  and 
dream  it  all  over  again,  and  that's  what  it'll 
all  amount  to,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head. 

Leaving  the  old  man  to  resume  his  turtle- 
hunting,  I  went  home,  with  no  other  thoughts 
than  of  what  I  had  been  told,  and  all  that 


138  Dreaming  Bob 

evening  I  recalled  the  old  man's  words,  while 
looking  over  the  early  deeds  that  had  passed 
from  hand  to  hand,  covering  the  swamp-land 
about  Dog-town. 

II. 

It  is  not  strange  that  I  dreamed  that 
night  of  the  old  man, — dreamed  I  was  the 
old  man  himself  and  hunting  in  the  woods 
for  "  daddy's  chest."  I  pushed  through  the 
painted  meadow,  breast-high  in  weeds, — 
boneset,  iron-weed,  and  dodder, — all  in 
bloom,  and  every  ditch  I  leaped  over  was 
marked  by  plumes  of  lizard's  tail  or  clustered 
rose-mallow.  Never  was  meadow  so  beau- 
tiful ;  but  I  could  not  linger  there.  Ever 
ahead  the  crested  tit  was  calling,  "  Here, 
here,"  and  I  was  forced  to  follow.  Then 
the  brush-land,  now  a  sombre  forest,  was 
reached,  and  on  through  the  pathless  woods 
I  sped,  walking  by  no  natural  means,  but 
hurried  as  if  shod  in  seven-league  boots, 
and  stopping  suddenly  where  there  grew  a 
great  chestnut,  an  oak,  and  a  bended  ash- 
tree.  I  looked  about  for  the  old  man,  but 
he  was  not  there.  Instead,  a  brilliant  cardi- 
nal flashed  across  the  open,  chased  by  a  hun- 


Dreaming  Bob  139 

dred  sparrows.  Then  a  black  hawk  darted 
by,  followed  by  scolding  crows,  and  disap- 
peared. It  was  like  an  engine  and  coal-cars 
rushing  into  a  tunnel ;  and  all  the  while  the 
crested  tit  that  had  charmed  me  called  from 
overhead,  "  Here,  here."  After  all,  the  old 
man  was  not  demented,  and  I  had  found  his 
"  daddy's  chest."  Then  1  awoke. 

At  the  promised  time  I  appeared  at  the 
door  of  the  old  man's  shanty,  and  found  him 
waiting.  What  a  place  for  a  man  to  live ! 
Except  that  he  had  a  fire,  there  was  almost 
nothing  in  the  hut  that  we  call  the  necessa- 
ries of  life ;  but  the  old  man  gave  me  no 
opportunity  to  scan  his  surroundings  closely. 
He  came  out  of  the  door-way,  where  he  had 
been  standing  as  I  approached,  and  motioned 
to  a  bench  under  the  single  tree  that  shaded 
the  spot. 

"  I've  had  a  different  dream,  and  want  to 
tell  all  about  it,  for  now  I  know  it's  no  use 
to  start  a-huntin*.  I  was  first  in  a  ma'sh 
that  looked  like  a  flower-garden,  and  then  in 
a  big  woods,  and  a  little  bird  kept  hollerin', 
'Here,'  and  I  follered  till  I  dropt  on  a 
bit  of  mossy  ground.  There  was  the  same 
trees,  but  a  lot  of  birds  kept  goin'  by,  and 


140  Dreaming  Bob 

they  seemed  to  holler,  « Fool/  and  I  woke 
up  all  cold  and  shiverin'.  It's  no  use.  You 
seem  sort  o'  sent  to  bring  me  to  my  senses  or 
knock  me  clean  out  o'  'em,  and  it  ain't  much 
matter  which,  seein'  I'm  about  used  up." 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you,  old  man  ;  but 
first  let  me  ask  you  your  name,"  I  said,  in 
reply  to  his  pathetic  speech. 

"  My  real  name  ?  No  ;  but  where  I  lived 
longest  it  was  '  Dreamin'  Bob,'  'cause  I  used 
to  say  I  was  goin'  to  be  rich  when  my  dream 
come  true."  And  for  the  first  time  the  old 
man  smiled  as  he  spoke. 

«  Well,  I'll  call  you  Robert,  then,"  I  re- 
plied. "  And  let  me  tell  you,  I  had  almost 
the  same  dream,  last  night,  that  you  did." 

"  You  did  ?"  And  the  old  man  looked 
very  sceptical  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  did,  and  I  think  when  I  was  a  little 
boy  I  saw  those  trees  in  the  woods.  If 
you're  in  the  notion  now,  we'll  start  on  a 
hunt,  for  I'm  a  believer  now  in  'daddy's 
chest.'"  And  I  looked  very  serious  as  I 
spoke,  to  give  him  greater  confidence  in 
what  I  said. 

"  Whether  you're  tryin*  to  make  game  of 
me  or  not,  I'll  go  'long,"  the  old  man  said ; 


Dreaming  Bob  141 

"  but  I  don't  go  thinkin'  you  can  help  me 
out.  What  about  you're  old  dockiments  you 
were  talkin*  of?  Did  they  help  you  out 
any  ?" 

"  You  made  fun  of  'em,  and  of  deeds  and 
lawyers  and  so  on,  but  I  know  who  you  are," 
I  replied. 

"  Who  ?"  he  asked,  stopping  suddenly  and 
facing  me. 

"  Bartholomew  Quiggle,  son  of  old  Aunt 
Betsy  that  kept  cakes  and  beer  in  her  day, 
when  this  was  a  stage  road,"  I  said,  with  a 
steady  look  into  the  old  man's  face. 

"  Bartholomew  Quiggle.  It's  the  first 
time  in  many  a  long  year  since  I  heard  it, 

'cept  when  I  said  it  to  myself.  Barthol 

but  I'm  too  old  to  think  about  it  now. 
Let's  find  the  chest,  and  then  it'll  be  time 
to  talk  it  over."  The  old  man  moved  for- 
ward. 

For  the  first  time  since  I  met  him  on  the 
meadows  did  it  occur  to  me  I  might  be 
making  a  fool  of  myself.  I  was  interested 
from  the  start,  and  had  made  an  effort  to 
identify  the  old  man,  which  had  proved  an 
easy  task,  but  that  I  should  be  influenced  by 
a  dream  was  absurd.  Had  not  what  he  had 


142  Dreaming  Bob 

told  me  been  enough  to  bring  about  such  a 
dream  ?  Even  "  Dreamin'  Bob"  was  losing 
faith  in  dreams  after  many  years,  and  now  I 
took  it  up  with  his  former  enthusiasm.  It 
was  absurd,  and  here  I  was,  his  guide,  of 
my  own  volition,  and  not  knowing  in  what 
direction  to  go.  I  hesitated,  and  he  noticed 
it. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  he  asked  :  "  gettin' 
out  o'  the  notion  a'ready,  when  you  was  so 
full  of  it?" 

"  Let's  look  over  the  ground  you've  been 
examining,"  I  suggested,  not  knowing  what 
to  say. 

"  It  couldn't  'a*  been  far  from  the  house, 
and  it  stood  close  on  the  road,  you  know," 
he  replied,  and  this  was  a  clue,  if  we 
could  only  locate  the  house.  No  document 
of  mine  helped  me  here ;  I  could  only 
guess ;  and  so  we  moved  on,  taking  what  I 
thought  was  a  probable  course.  We  were 
soon  in  a  traft  of  sprout-land,  and  the 
stumps  of  the  original  timber  growth  had 
quite  disappeared.  Here  and  there,  though, 
was  a  variation  in  the  level  surface  of  the 
ground, — a  slight  elevation,  and  moss-cov- 
ered or  bright  green  with  a  mat  of  fine 


Dreaming  Bob  143 

grass  that  showed  the  ground  was  there 
particularly  fertile.  All  such  places  we  ex- 
amined with  some  care,  but  to  have  dug  into 
any  one  would  have  been  absurd.  Every 
such  spot  was  counted  out  because  of  its 
position  with  reference  to  the  public  road. 
At  last  we  came  to  where  pine  woods  had 
been,  a  little  island  of  pines  once  in  a  sea  of 
white  oaks. 

"Stop,"  cried  the  old  man,  who  was  a 
little  distance  off;  "  there's  been  pines  here, 
and  somehow But  my  head's  all  mud- 
dled." And  he  stood  by  a  stout  sapling  and 
leaned  heavily  against  it. 

"  You've  been  walking  too  fast,"  I  sug- 
gested. 

"  No,  I  ain't ;  but  that  dream's  botherin* 
me,  and  I  feel  sort  o'  queer,"  he  said,  with  a 
trembling  voice  that  frightened  me.  "  I'm 
tough  enough,  seein'  what  I've  gone  through 
in  my  day.  Don't  you  worry :  it's  the 
dream.  I  sort  o'  feel  as  if  it  was  comin' 
true." 

"We  will  rest  awhile,  anyhow,"  I  said, 
"  and  have  a  bite  of  lunch."  And  I  pulled 
a  small  package  from  my  pocket.  The  old 
man  evidently  expe&ed  me  to  produce  a 


144  Dreaming  Bob 

whiskey-flask,  but  I  did  not,  and  with  a 
slight  show  of  disappointment  he  accepted 
the  solid  food  I  offered. 

While  we  were  eating,  we  heard  voices 
near  by,  and  I  made  a  motion  to  keep  quiet, 
to  which  he  silently  assented.  Two  men 
passed  near  us,  but  without  discovering  our 
whereabouts.  When  within  hearing  one 
was  talking  earnestly,  narrating  a  recent  ad- 
venture. "  My  dog  treed  something,"  he 
said,  "and  I  couldn't  call  him  off,  so  I  left  my 
work  and  went  over.  The  cur  was  diggin'  a 
hole  where  there'd  been  a  big  tree  standin* 
once,  and  I  went  up  to  see  what  he'd  got. 
He'd  struck  a  root,  I  thought,  but,  lookin* 
down,  I  saw  a  piece  of  board  and  an  iron  on 
it ;  and,  lookin'  closer,  it  showed  it  was  a 
box  that  had  been  buried." 

"  No  !"  exclaimed  his  companion,  stopping 
in  the  path  and  looking  at  his  friend. 

"  You  bet ;  and  I  tackled  the  job  quick, 
seein'  some  one  might  come  and  git  it  out. 
It  was  all  rusty  and  rotten  and  filled  with  a 
mess  o'  stuff  I  couldn't  make  out,  and  a  big 
double  handful  of  money." 

"  Gold  ?"  said  the  other  man,  interrupting 
the  narrator. 


Dreaming  Bob  145 

"Gold!  Well,  I  guess  not.  It  was 
nothin'  but  pennies  and  a  few  things  they 
told  me  used  to  be  called  fips  and  shillin's. 
It  didn't  amount  to  five  dollars  all  told, 
except  what  I  got  extra  on  some  of  the  old 
pennies." 

While  these  men  were  talking,  the  old 
man  did  not  move  a  muscle,  but  his  face  was 
the  pifture  of  despair.  I  wished  myself  a 
hundred  miles  away.  The  finder  of  the 
treasure  and  his  friend  moved  on,  and  when 
we  could  no  longer  hear  their  footsteps  I 
turned  to  the  old  man  and  said,  "  Well, 
what  shall  we  do  ?" 

"  I'm  goin*  back  to  my  shanty,  and  you 
needn't  come.  I'm  much  obliged  to  you  all 
the  same."  He  turned  and  left  me  without 
saying  even  "  good-by." 

I  did  not  follow  him,  much  as  I  wished  to 
do  so,  and  I  tried  in  vain  to  turn  my  thoughts 
into  other  channels  than  those  concerning 
him. 

That  night  Dreaming  Bob,  otherwise 
Bartholomew  Quiggle,  died. 


WINKLE:   THE  EEL-MAN 


I. 

DOES  the  place  make  the  people  ?  Cer- 
tainly the  mountaineer  differs  from 
the  dweller  on  a  plain,  and  those  who  have 
spent  their  days  'long  shore  are  distinguish- 
able from  either.  Who  has  failed  to  notice 
that  the  country  boy  who  leaves  home  for 
the  town  becomes  "  citified"  and  in  all  ways 
unlike  his  home-staying  brother  ?  Certainly 
the  place  has  much  to  do  with  it, — as  much 
as  the  mould  decides  the  shape  of  the  mass 
of  clay  the  potter  places  within  it.  Heredity, 
too,  afts  an  important  part.  There  was  a 
Job  Perriwinkle,  servant,  among  the  arrivals 
in  West  Jersey  two  centuries  ago,  and  the 
Perriwinkles  remained  such  for  succeeding 
generations :  the  last  of  them  just  a  little 
above  that  condition.  These  things  con- 
sidered, it  is  not  strange  that  "  Winkle,"  as 
146 


Winkle:  the  Eel-Man      147 

every  one  knew  him,  should  have  been  a 
product  of  Poverty  Cross. 

A  word  here  as  to  this  strange  place.  It 
is  where  two  old  long-abandoned  bridle- 
paths interse&ed,  near  the  middle  of  an 
irredeemable  traft, — one  where  Nature  had 
tossed  aside  all  the  rubbish,  after  fashioning 
a  goodly  land.  Originally  it  was  known  as 
Poverty  Cross-roads,  as  one  old  deed  attests  ; 
but  recently  the  interest  in  folk-lore  and  local 
history  has  brought  to  the  front  the  champion 
of  this  strange  explanation :  that  the  name 
is  derived  from  the  facl:  that  a  missionary 
set  up  a  station  here,  and,  failing  to  make 
one  convert,  called  the  place  Poverty  Cross. 
This  is  how  much  local  history  is  "  made." 
But  what  better  can  be  expedled?  This 
place,  and  much  of  its  surroundings  for 
many  a  mile,  offers  no  foothold  for  ambition. 
Those  who  remain  are  content  with  little, 
even  intellectually,  and  were  charmed  re- 
cently by  a  pickwickian  lecture  on  the 
"  Oneness  of  Unity  and  Differences  of  the 
Diametrically  Opposite,"  even  speaking  of 
it,  months  after,  as  a  '*  learned  discourse." 

But  let  us  back  to  Winkle,  the  nearest  to  a 
savage  of  them  all,  and  so  worthiest  of  con- 


148     Winkle:   the  Eel-Man 

sideration.  I  will  not  attempt  to  describe 
him.  The  truth  would  not  be  accepted,  and 
I  will  not  spoil  a  good  story  by  using  false 
colors.  I  can  only  hope  that  his  strange 
physique  will  shine  through  what  I  shall 
tell  about  him. 

I  have  said  that  the  last  of  the  Perri- 
winkles  had  a  glimmer  of  higher  aims  than 
servitude,  and  while  yet  a  lad  had  acquired 
such  freedom  as  he  wished,  becoming  a  self- 
sustaining  trapper,  fowler,  and  fisherman. 
It  was  as  the  last  that  he  pre-eminently  ex- 
celled. He  alone,  of  all  the  men  who  lived 
and  loafed  near  the  creek,  knew  Crosswicks 
Creek  thoroughly.  It  seemed  as  if  he  must 
have  felt  with  his  hands  or  feet,  or  both,  the 
whole  bed  of  the  stream,  from  the  river, 
where  it  ended,  up  to  the  first  mill-dam,  a 
distance  of  about  eight  miles.  On  one  oc- 
casion, when  with  Winkle,  I  remember  he 
stopped  his  boat  suddenly,  and,  thrusting  an 
oar  to  the  bottom,  showed  me  how  deep  was 
the  water  at  this  point, — it  was  low  tide  at 
the  time, — and  remarked,  "  Cur'us,  but,  lad, 
there's  a  walnut-stump  down  there  that's 
three  feet  across.  Once  a  time  the  creek  ran 
over  yander,"  and  he  pointed  to  a  long  row 


The  Overflowing  Delaware 


148  vie:   the  Eel-Man 

I  will  not  attempt  to 
.ic  truth  would  not  be  accepted,  tad 
1  will  not  spoil  a  good  story  by  using 
colors.     I  can   only  hope  that   his   strange 
physique  will   shine    through  what  I  shall 
tell  about  him. 

I  have  said  that  the  last  of  the  Perri- 
winkles  had  a  glimmer  of  higher  aims  than 
servitude,  and  while  yet  a  lad  had  acquired 
such  freedom  as  he  wished,  becoming  a  self- 
sustaining  trapper,  fowl.ir,  and  fisherman. 
It  was  as  the  last  that  he  pr  y  ex- 

celled.    He  alone,  of  all  the  men  who  lived 
and  loafed  near  the  creek,  knew  Crop.- 
Creek  thoroughly.     It  seemed  as  if  he  must 
have  felt  with  his  hands  or  feet,  or  both,  the 
whole  bed  of  the   stream,  from  the  riyer, 
where  it  ended,  up  to  the  first  mill-dam,  a 
distance  of  about  eight  miles.     On  one  oc- 
casion, when  with  Winkle,  I  remember  he 
stopped  his  boat  suddenly,  and,  thrusting  an 
oar  to  the  bottom,  showed  me  how  dei 
the  water  at  this  point, — it  was 
the  time, — and  remarked,  "  C 
there's  a  walnut-stir 

three  feet  across.     Once  a  tin  :k  ran 

over  yander,"  and  he  pointed  to  a  long  row 


Winkle:  the  Eel-Man      149 

of  sassafras-trees  that  divided  a  long  level 
reach  of  dry  pasture  meadow  from  a  wider 
area  that  was  lower  and  marshy.  "  If  you 
stand,"  he  continued,  "at  the  end  of  the 
trees,  you'll  see  a  dip  in  the  land,  and  that's 
the  old  creek-bed.  It  was  in  Injun  times,  o* 
course." 

"  How  came  you  ever  to  notice  this,"  I 
asked,  "and  find  out  about  the  walnut- 
stump  ?" 

"  Umph  !  Well,  lad,  I'm  not  a  fisherman 
fur  nothin'.  There's  nets  been  broke  in  that 
stump,  and  many  a  hook  is  stickin'  in  it  now. 
Why,  boy,  it  don't  take  long  to  dive  down 
and  see  what's  what ;  and  can't  you  see  how 
land  lays  when  you  walk  over  it  ?"  he  replied, 
with  an  over-abundance  of  contempt  in  both 
tone  and  manner. 

"  Not  always,"  I  replied. 

"  Can't  ?  Then  your  eyes  ain't  o*  much 
account.  If  a  thing's  right  afore  you  and 
you  can't  see  it,  then  what's  the  good  o* 
having'  eyes?"  Cutting  his  speech  short, 
he  gave  me  a  searching  glance  that  explained 
a  great  deal  of  what  was  passing  in  his  mind. 
He  had  taken  me  up  as  an  apt  pupil  and  now 
was  disposed  to  set  me  down  as  a  dullard. 


150     Winkle:  the  Eel-Man 

This  had  been  an  earlier  experience,  and  a 
later  one,  too,  of  mine.  I  was  more  sorry 
than  surprised.  It  were  foolish  to  attempt  to 
attain  to  Winkle's  excellencies  in  their  pecu- 
liar lines. 

This  strange  man  did  not  have  ordinary 
human  eyes.  The  four  senses  of  touch, 
hearing,  smell,  and  sight  had  been  so  devel- 
oped by  constant  use  that  he  had  brought 
them  to  the  perfe&ion  that  characterizes 
such  wild  animals  as  are  forced  to  depend  on 
them  for  their  food  and  safety.  The  physi- 
ologist may  laugh  at  this,  and  say  it  is  im- 
possible, but  I  long  ago  learned  to  laugh  at 
the  doftors.  All  that  I  have  written  was 
true  of  Winkle.  He  was  too  extraordinary 
a  character  to  be  described.  The  charge 
of  exaggeration  would  surely  follow ;  and 
yet  it  is  unwise  to  stand  in  awe  of  critics. 
Not  one  of  them  ever  saw  the  man.  I  knew 
him  well,  and  he  has  been  heard  to  say  I 
was  the  only  friend  he  ever  had.  I  have 
said  that  he  could  not  be  described,  but  let 
me  try.  He  was  tall  and  slim,  and  his  head 
was  like  his  body,  so  that  it  pointed  him  off 
something  like  a  clumsily-sharpened  lead- 
pencil.  His  arms  were  snake-like,  and,  as  a 


Winkle:  the  Eel-Man      151 

neighbor  once  said,  "  his  legs  are  nothin*  but 
a  string  o*  knees."  He  could  bend  in  half  a 
dozen  directions  at  once,  and  when  walking 
along  the  highway  he  swayed  to  and  fro  as 
if  more  than  half  intoxicated ;  but  in  a  nar- 
row, twisting  forest-path  he  glided  swiftly, 
silently,  and  ghost-like,  making  no  overhang- 
ing branch  bend  by  the  pressure  of  his  hands 
or  body.  He  wormed  his  way  between  ob- 
stacles that  check  the  progress  of  ordinary 
mortals,  and  it  was  a  hopeless  task  for  any 
one  to  attempt  to  follow  him  with  the  same 
speed  and  grace.  He  climbed  a  tree  as  a 
blacksnake  darts  over  a  brush-heap  or  glides 
along  the  top  rail  of  an  old  worm-fence. 
Stretching  along  a  slender  branch,  Winkle 
could  reach  to  outlying  points  towards  which 
no  nest-robbing  boy  would  dare  to  venture. 
Perhaps  in  all  this  he  has  had  his  equals.  It 
was  in  the  water  that  Winkle  was  at  home. 
Then  he  always  reminded  me  of  a  seal.  His 
movements  were  very  similar,  for  his  arms 
were  not  prominent  when  he  swam.  The 
propelling  force  was  derived  wholly  by  leg- 
motion.  The  ignorant  folk  who  knew  him 
said  that  water  did  not  wet  him,  which  was 
not  quite  true,  but  never  had  a  hair  ever  grown 


152      Winkle:  the  Eel-Man 

on  Winkle's  body,  and  his  skin  was  oily  to 
the  touch,  or,  on  land,  like  newly-made  and 
flexible  parchment.  To  be  in  the  water,  he 
always  claimed,  limbered  him  up,  while  too 
long  tarrying  on  land  caused  him  to  wrinkle 
and  crack  like  a  dead  leaf.  This,  his  own 
way  of  putting  it,  tells  truthfully  the  whole 
story.  His  clothing  was  of  the  simplest 
kind,  and  eight  months  of  each  year  he  was 
barefoot. 

It  was  an  English  gardener  and  poacher, 
who  came  to  these  parts  when  Winkle  was 
in  his  prime,  who  gave  him,  with  my  aid, 
the  name  of  the  "  eel-man."  One  morning 
I  met  Jimmie  on  the  public  road,  and  he 
assured  me  that  "  this  veek  'as  been  a  veek 
of  ewents.  Th*  old  woman  has  brown  crit- 
ters in  her  throat,  and  I've  seen  a  man  as 
swims  like  a  heel." 

II. 

"Winkle,"  I  said  one  morning,  as  I 
stood  by  the  door  of  his  quaint  cabin, — 
"  Winkle,  did  you  ever  hear  of  the  wreck 
of  the  Betsy  Ann  ?" 

"  Wrack  o'  who  ?"  he  asked,  with  abun- 
dant surprise  in  his  tones.  "  Wrack  o'  who  ? 


Winkle:  the  Eel-Man      153 

I've  heard  o'  more'n  one  woman  bein* 
wracked  by  takin*  up  too  quick  with  the 
fust  to  come  along,  but  who's  Betsy  Ann  ?" 

"  Come,  old  man,"  I  said  in  an  earnest 
way,  to  command  his  attention;  "I  mean 
just  what  I  say.  Didn't  your  folks  ever  tell 
you  about  the  sloop,  Betsy  Ann,  that  got 
wrecked  off  the  mouth  of  Barge  Creek  ?" 

"  No  ;  nor  yours  neither,  I  guess.  Why, 
lad,  there  ain't  room  enough  at  the  mouth  o* 
Barge  for  anythin'  bigger'n  a  skiff  to  get 
swamped.  You've  got  things  mixed,  lad," 
Winkle  replied,  with  earnestness  quite  equal 
to  my  own.  In  fa6t,  my  question  was  an 
intimation  that  I  had  superior  knowledge  of 
the  creek's  history,  if  not  of  the  stream  itself, 
and  this  he  was  quite  unwilling  to  allow. 
After  a  lengthy  pause,  which  I  did  not  inter- 
rupt, he  continued,  "  You'll  be  laughed  at 
some  time  if  you  ain't  kerful  about  keepin* 
stones  straight.  This  creek  here  ain't  the 
'Lantic  Ocean,  and  shipwracks  sound  bet- 
ter when  you  talk  about  the  sea-shore. 
Guess  your  Betsy  Ann  was  only  a  hay-scow 
and  medder-grass  the  cargo,"  and  Winkle 
chuckled  to  himself  at  the  thought  of 
having  squelched  me. 


154     Winkle:  the  Eel-Man 

I  was  not  unprepared  for  this,  and  let  him 
have  his  fill  of  enjoyment  at  my  expense 
before  I  spoke  again ;  then  I  remarked,  in  a 
quiet  way  that  showed  how  sure  I  felt  of 
what  I  was  saying,  "  It  was  a  long  time 
ago ;  long  before  you  were  born  ;  more  than 
one  hundred  years  ago.  A  great  wind  came 
up  suddenly,  just  as  the  boat  got  inside  the 
creek,  and  sent  her  over  on  her  side  and 
wedged  her  between  trees  growing  on  the 
bank,  and  stove  a  hole  in  her  stern,  so  that 
she  had  her  cargo  spoiled.  They  didn't 
get  a  great  deal  out  of  her,  and  when  she 
was  hauled  off  she  sank.  One  account  says 
she  was  burning  when  she  sank.  Anyhow, 
the  hulk  lay  there  in  the  channel  and  rotted 
away,  I  suppose.  Let's  go  see  if  we  can 
find  any  signs  of  her  this  late  day." 

My  long  speech  ended,  Winkle  looked  me 
very  searchingly  in  the  eyes  in  a  way  that 
makes  it  impossible  to  hold  anything  back, 
if  you  happen  to  be  telling  him  only  half  a 
truth.  Then  he  stared  at  the  clouds  and 
towards  the  creek  and  at  times  hummed  to 
himself,  but  not  a  word  for  me.  I  waited, 
knowing  he  was  thinking  of  all  he  knew  of 
that  part  of  the  creek.  Suddenly  his  whole 


Winkle:  the  Eel-Man      155 

manner  changed.  His  eyes  sparkled  like 
coals  of  fire,  and  he  said,  with  unusual  in- 
terest, even  enthusiasm,  "  Yes,  I'll  go ;  but 
how  did  you  hear  all  this  ?" 

"  It  is  down  in  an  old  commonplace  book 
I  have.  The  Betsy  Ann  belonged  to  my 
great  grandfather,"  I  replied,  with  some  evi- 
dence of  pride  in  my  manner  of  speaking, 
for  I  knew  he  could  not  doubt  my  authority 
for  all  that  I  had  told  him. 

"  Umph  !"  grunted  Winkle ;  but  just  how 
to  construe  that  frequent  ejaculation  of  the 
man  I  never  learned. 

I  was  ready,  then  and  there,  to  go,  and 
Winkle  was  never  unprepared.  He  had 
always  boasted  of  being  free  as  a  bird  and 
had  made  his  boast  good,  which  showed  his 
superiority  over  some  men  I  have  met.  We 
were  soon  aboard  this  strange  man's  trim 
little  boat,  and  its  owner's  semi-aquatic 
nature  seemed  to  animate  the  vessel.  It 
more  than  merely  floated.  It  swam  like  a 
wary  diver,  just  skimming  the  surface ;  yet 
we  were  a  heavy  load  for  so  light  a  craft, 
but  Winkle's  wrist  was  as  true  a  machine  as 
ever  was  turned  out  by  an  engine-builder. 
His  sculling  was  marvellous.  Familiar  points, 


156     Winkle:  the  Eel-Man 

like  the  Swan  Island  flood-gates  and  Hickory- 
Meadow  and  the  tall  poplars  were  passed  in 
quick  succession,  and  then  we  went  through 
the  crooked  water-way  of  the  wild  Willow 
bend,  where  Nature  has  never  been  dis- 
turbed,— swiftly,  it  seemed,  as  might  a  fright- 
ened fish.  It  was  a  splendid  ride,  but  too 
short.  All  too  soon  for  me,  we  were  at  rest 
where  the  stream  forms  a  wide  bay  and  the 
waters  of  Barge  Creek  come  pouring  into  it 
with  every  outgoing  tide. 

Before  I  could  realize  what  Winkle  was 
about  he  had  disappeared.  He  had  left  the 
boat  so  quietly  it  was  not  moved  from  an 
even  keel,  nor  was  there  any  commotion  in 
the  water.  Fancy  a  water-snake  gliding 
over  the  gunwales  and  you  have  the  fash- 
ion of  Winkle's  movements  accurately  de- 
scribed. 

For  me,  of  course,  there  was  nothing  to 
do  but  sit  quietly  in  the  boat  and  await  his 
return  and  report  of  what  he  had  found. 
Winkle  was  now  groping  in  the  water  and 
mud  as  might  an  eel  in  search  of  food.  How 
he  could  determine  anything  was  a  mystery. 
Might  he  not  be  something  of  a  humbug, 
after  all?  I  sometimes  asked  myself  this; 


Winkle:  the  Eel-Man      157 

but,  then,  he  had  never  been  proved  such. 
Suddenly  my  thoughts  were  cut  short  by  the 
recollection  of  his  prolonged  absence.  I 
felt  worried  for  a  moment  and  then  fright- 
ened. Had  he  stuck  in  the  mud  and 
drowned?  I  looked  over  the  side  of  the 
boat  but  could  see  no  distance  into  the 
water,  and  I  scanned  every  inch  of  the  near- 
by shores.  I  have  good  eyes.  If  he  were 
playing  some  game,  I  knew  that  he  could 
not  hide  from  me.  Had  he  disturbed  the 
dock  or  wild-rice  growing  at  the  water's 
edge,  I  should  have  detefted  it.  It  is  a 
small  objeft  that  can  elude  my  search.  Cer- 
tainly, I  concluded,  an  accident  has  hap- 
pened. I  was  really  frightened,  and,  as 
fright  always  makes  fools  of  us,  made  a  des- 
perate effort  to  collecl:  myself.  In  time,  the 
absurdity  of  calling  to  Winkle  occurred  to 
me;  and  as  useless  would  it  have  been  to 
call  for  help,  for  I  was  far  from  any  habita- 
tion. Worse  than  all,  I  did  not  dare  to  dive, 
being  no  swimmer,  and  Winkle  must  be 
dead  anyhow,  so  long  a  time  had  elapsed 
since  his  disappearance.  I  waited  fully  ten 
minutes  to  wholly  collecl:  myself,  and  I  saw, 
then,  that  all  that  was  left  to  me  was  to 


158     Winkle:  the  Eel-Man 

report  his  death  and  institute  a  search  for 
his  body. 

What  a  ride  was  that  back  to  Winkle's 
cabin !  I  felt  hurried  and  yet  could  make 
no  headway.  There  was  but  one  oar  in  the 
boat,  and  I  could  not  scull  except  in  an  awk- 
ward way.  To  paddle  was  infinitely  slow, 
and  the  water  often  too  deep  to  use  the  oar 
as  a  pole.  The  tide,  too,  was  against  me. 
How  sombre  the  world  looked !  The  sun 
was  red  ;  the  leaves  dingy ;  the  waters  black. 
I  had  brought  Winkle  to  his  death,  and  to 
announce  the  tidings  thereof  was  an  un- 
pleasant anticipation.  I  must,  nevertheless, 
sound  an  alarm,  and,  be  the  outcome  what 
it  might,  would  be  a  prominent  figure  in  a 
most  gruesome  affair.  The  creek  seemed  to 
lengthen  as  I  worked  my  way  up-stream. 
Every  snag  at  Willow  Bend  held  me  fast, 
and  the  tall  poplars  cast  such  black  shadows 
across  the  channel  that  they  seemed  effe&ual 
barriers  to  my  progress.  I  paddled,  poled, 
and  lamely  sculled  until  at  last  his  cabin  was 
in  sight,  and  then  my  strength  failed  me. 
The  spot  no  longer  had  any  attraction  for 
me,  and  yet  I  could  look  only  in  the  one 
dire&ion;  stared  so  intently  and  so  long 


Winkle:  the  Eel-Man      159 

that  at  last  I  saw  Winkle's  ghost  sitting  in 
the  door-way.  I  knew  now  that  I  had  un- 
dergone too  great  excitement  and  was  likely 
to  be  ill.  Nothing  was  natural.  A  strange 
idea  now  took  possession  of  me.  Had  I 
too  been  drowned,  and  was  it  but  the  ghost 
of  myself  that  was  now  coming  back  to  the 
cabin ;  phantom  to  meet  phantom  and  there 
fight  ?  I  felt,  at  least,  in  a  defiant  mood,  and 
struggled  with  the  oar,  for  the  waters  were 
now  tenacious  as  pitch,  and,  in  spite  of  all 
my  efforts,  the  boat  stood  still.  For  the 
moment  I  did  not  realize  that  I  was  in  a 
thick  mat  of  weeds.  This  was  my  first 
step  towards  a  sane  view  of  the  situation, 
and  then  I  strained  my  eyes  to  better  see 
the  ghost,  praying  the  while  that  it  might 
prove  some  trick  of  light  and  shade.  With 
the  strength  born  of  desperation  I  made  a 
final  effort  and  brought  the  boat  to  the  land- 
ing. It  came  in  violent  contact  with  the 
stake  to  which  it  was  tied  when  not  in  use, 
and  the  noise  of  the  collision  caused  Winkle's 
ghost  to  move.  I  stood  and  stared,  and 
Winkle,  in  the  flesh,  looked  up,  and  I  met 
again  that  searching  gaze  of  his  I  knew  so 
well.  How  I  left  the  boat  and  reached  the 


160     Winkle:  the  Eel-Man 

cabin,  but  a  few  steps  away,  I  do  not  know. 
I  was  too  excited  still  to  realize  anything 
altogether  rationally,  and  but  dimly  remem- 
ber my  question,  "  What  does  this  all 
mean  ?" 

Winkle  turned  slowly  towards  me  as  I 
spoke,  and  while  his  reply  was  forthcoming 
I  slowly  regained  composure.  "  It  means 
that  you're  right,"  he  finally  said  in  a  peculiar 
way  that  showed  he  too  was  much  excited, 
though  otherwise  undemonstrative. 

"  Then  why  didn't  you  tell  me,  and  how 
did  you  get  here  ?"  I  asked,  with  some  show 
of  indignation. 

"  How  ?"  he  exclaimed,  as  if  surprised 
at  my  questions ;  "  why,  swum,  o'  course. 
Didn't  I  show  a-top  o'  the  water  ?" 

"  No ;  you  sneaked  off  so  as  to  frighten 
me  out  of  my  wits,"  I  replied,  with  no 
abatement  of  my  annoyance  at  the  trick  he 
had  played  me. 

"Did,  lad?  Well,  I  didn't  mean  to," 
Winkle  said  in  most  aggravating  tones,  as  if 
all  that  had  happened  was  of  no  consequence 
nor  in  any  way  unusual.  "  I  s'posed  I  was 
a-top  o'  the  water  somewhere  up-stream  and 
didn't  think  to  call  back  fur  you  to  come  on. 


Winkle:  the  Eel-Man      161 

It's  quicker  swimmin*  than  scullin'  a  boat 
with  you  in  it." 

Was  this  fellow  human?  I  felt  a  little 
queer  in  his  presence  for  the  first  time  in 
my  life.  English  Jimmie  was  right :  Winkle 
could  swim  "  like  a  heel,"  and  he  had.  I 
was  angry,  now  that  I  was  myself  again,  and 
yet  too  much  interested  to  spoil  all  by  losing 
my  temper.  I  affefted  to  laugh  at  the  whole 
matter  and  allow  Winkle  to  tell  his  story  in 
his  own  time  and  way.  This,  after  some 
minutes  had  elapsed,  he  did. 

"  I  slipped  down  to  the  bottom  and  crawled 
along  the  sides  where  the  pebbles  jine  the 
muddy  slopes,  but  I  couldn't  see  nothin* 
that  oughtn't  'a'  been  there.  Just  mud  on 
the  slopes  and  stones  where  the  tide  keeps 
a-washin'.  Then  I  popped  up  for  a  bit  o* 
wind,  and  went  down  along  the  Barge  Creek 
shores,  and  there  wasn't  no  difference.  I 
kep'  comin'  up  for  a  puff  o'  air  and  down 
again,  and  then  I  made  out  a  hump  in  the 
creek  channel  and  a  deep  hole  where  the 
water  swashed  round  like  a  mill-race.  I 
had  to  show  up  often  'fore  I  could  get  at 
the  place,  and  then  I  found  it  was  all  a 
hump  o'  hard  clay;  but  I  made  out  a  bit 


162      Winkle:  the  Eel-Man 

o*  iron  stickin'  out.  It  broke  off  short-like 
when  I  took  hold.  I  kep'  bobbin*  up  and 
down,  so  I  don't  see  how  you  come  to  miss 
me;  and  when  I  was  gettin*  pretty  well 
played  out  I  jerked  at  a  bit  more  o*  the  old 
iron,  and  it  sort  o*  broke  away  in  a  big 
lump,  and  I  grabbed  at  somethin*  shinin1 
that  looked  like  a  shiny  fish,  but  wasn't 
swimminMike.  The  water  was  clear  enough 
to  make  out  a  little,  and  I  seen  what  I  had 
was  money." 

Winkle  stopped  abruptly  at  this  point  and 
commenced  wildly  staring  at  the  sky.  Then 
he  glanced  at  me,  as  if  endeavoring  to  solve 
some  weighty  problem  that  concerned  me 
more  than  himself.  I  did  not  interrupt  him. 
He  must  have  his  own  way  ;  and  it  was  but  a 
minute  or  two  before  his  sanity  returned  and 
he  continued,  "  Somehow  I  was  sort  o*  broke 
up  when  I  found  money  there  and  didn't  take 
in  where  I  was,  and,  grabbin'  that  piece  like 
a  vise,  I  just  made  fur  the  cabin  and  forgot 
you  had  gone  along;  and  that's  the  hull 
story,"  and  Winkle  gave  me  one  of  his 
searching  glances,  and  said,  in  a  lower  and 
persuasive  tone,  as  if  in  much  doubt  as  to 
my  decision,  "  There's  this,  lad,  I'd  like  to 


Winkle:  the  Eel-Man      163 

say.  You  don't  need  the  money  much  as  I 
do,  and  if  there's  more  in  that  mud-bank, 
why,  let  me  have  it  fur  the  gettin',"  and 
saying  this  he  handed  me  a  still  rather  bright 
Mexican  half-dollar. 

Two  thoughts  came  to  my  mind  at  the 
same  moment.  The  coin  did  not  appear  as 
if  it  had  been  lying  in  the  mud  for  more 
than  a  century ;  and,  again,  why  should 
money  have  been  left  on  the  Betsy  Ann  ? 
Perhaps  Winkle  was  playing  a  joke  on  me, 
and  soon  I  would  be  the  laughing-stock  of 
the  country-side.  But,  then,  I  recalled  that 
these  were  only  suspicions,  and  probably 
unjust.  I  could  verify  nothing  of  all  I 
thought;  but,  putting  little  faith  in  what 
people  say,  as  we  meet  them  from  day  to 
day,  I  naturally  included  this  fish-like  hu- 
man, Winkle,  though  there  was  some  reason 
for  thinking  him  more  honest  than  his  neigh- 
bors. He  might  be  all  that,  and  yet  not  alto- 
gether true.  But  as  I  continued  to  handle 
the  half-dollar  better  thoughts  came  to  me, 
and  I  promised  all  he  wished.  Any  dollars 
left  in  the  wreck  of  the  Betsy  Ann  he  was 
quite  welcome  to.  They  were  as  much  his  as 
mine  anyhow,  and  I  certainly  would  not  dive 


164     Winkle:  the  Eel-Man 

for  any  of  them  myself,  nor  tell  any  one 
what  was  now  a  secret  between  us. 

Winkle's  countenance  brightened  at  my 
words.  He  seemed  like  an  excited  child 
over  a  new  toy,  and  commenced,  I  fancied, 
to  build  castles  in  the  air.  I  tried  to  draw 
from  him  further  details  as  to  the  day,  but 
he  would  not  say  more,  and  at  last,  rather 
reluctantly,  I  left  him  sitting  in  his  cabin 
door- way. 

III. 

Winkle  soon  became,  in  more  ways  than 
one,  a  changed  man.  He  was  less  about  the 
creek  and  more  frequently  seen  at  the  tavern. 
It  was  evident  that  he  had  found  more  than 
the  single  half-dollar  he  had  shown  me,  or 
did  he  make  constant  visits  to  the  wreck  and 
gather  a  coin  or  two  each  time  ?  There  was 
evidently  something  back  of  the  little  that  I 
knew,  and  I  could  learn  nothing,  of  late,  from 
questioning  him.  "  Yes,  he  had  been  to 
the  wrack  since  that  day,"  but  beyond  this 
he  would  not  go.  To  solve  the  mystery, 
if  possible,  I  went  to  the  wreck  one  morn- 
ing, and,  approaching  it  very  quietly,  I  no- 
ticed a  slight  but  constant  agitation  of  the 


Winkle:  the  Eel-Man      165 

rank  reed  growth  just  inshore  from  where 
the  wreck  was  lying.  It  may  only  be  a 
stray  cow,  or  dog  digging  for  musk-rats,  I 
thought,  but  I  strongly  suspected  it  was 
Winkle.  But  why  was  he  inshore  and  not 
under  the  water?  I  determined  that  my 
little  woodcraft  should  stand  me  well  in 
hand.  I  would  surprise  Winkle,  although  I 
knew  I  was  pitted  against  a  man  that  could 
not  readily  be  deceived.  Now  was  my 
chance  to  show  him,  if  it  was  Winkle,  that 
I  had  been  an  apt  scholar.  Very  slowly 
drawing  back,  I  noiselessly  hid  my  boat  in 
thick-set  button-bushes  on  the  creek-bank, 
and,  creeping  to  a  clump  of  trees,  climbed 
up  into  one  until  I  could  get  a  bird's-eye 
view  of  the  surroundings.  It  never  occurred 
to  me  he  could  look  up  at  a  tree  as  easily  as 
I  could  look  down  from  it.  As  I  supposed, 
I  plainly  recognized  the  man  who  was  steadily 
Digging  in  the  stiff  soil  that  is  now  just  a 
little  above  high  tide.  I  saw  at  a  glance  the 
whole  truth.  One  end  of  the  vessel  reached 
out  into  the  present  creek  channel  and  the 
rest  of  it  was  buried  in  the  steep,  stiff  mud- 
bank  of  the  stream.  Satisfied  of  this,  I 
clambered  down  from  my  perch  and  began 


i66     Winkle:  the  Eel-Man 

creeping  cautiously  towards  Winkle,  but  it 
was  evident  at  a  glance  that,  however  near  I 
might  get  to  him,  there  would  still  be  inter- 
cepting weeds,  and,  while  I  might  lie  con- 
cealed, I  could  see  nothing  of  what  the  man 
was  doing.  While  revolving  all  this  in  my 
mind,  as  I  was  creeping  on  all-fours  through 
bulrushes  and  tear-thumb  grass,  I  was  startled 
by  Winkle  loudly  calling  out,  "  Say,  lad, 
what's  the  good  o*  holdin'  back  ?  I  saw  you 
up  the  tree  and  heard  your  boat  long  'fore  I 
saw  it." 

Had  this  man  eyes  in  the  back  of  his 
head  ?  I  never  thought  before  to  look  ;  and 
what  ears !  Yet  as  I  noticed  now,  they 
presented  no  unusual  appearance.  Pride  in 
my  woodcraft  was,  of  course,  all  gone.  I 
stepped  boldly  up,  but,  as  I  knew,  with  a 
flushed  face.  Winkle  laughed,  after  his 
fashion,  and  showed  me  all  that  he  had  been 
doing.  The  Betsy  Ann  had  been  partly 
burned  before  she  sank,  and  the  wreck  was,  as 
I  had  supposed,  lying  with  the  stern  inshore. 
The  little  that  remained  of  the  cabin  was 
now  exposed,  and  in  it  Winkle  had  evidently 
found  some  treasure,  but  how  much  he  would 
not  say.  This  was  to  be  his  last  visit,  he 


Winkle:  the  Eel-Man      167 

said,  as  there  was  nothing  more  to  uncover. 
All  that  had  been  lost,  years  ago,  that  could 
be  found  he  felt  sure  he  had  got.  "  A  little 
fur  me  old  age,"  he  put  it.  I  did  not  stay 
long.  The  heat  and  mosquitoes  robbed  the 
place  of  all  romance,  and,  as  Winkle  was 
about  through  with  his  work  when  I  got 
there,  we  left  the  wreck  of  the  Betsy  Ann 
together.  "  It's  all  owin*  to  you,"  was 
Winkle's  one  remark,  as  we  turned  our 
backs  upon  the  spot.  I  could  not  keep  very 
near  him,  row  as  I  might.  His  little  boat 
fairly  flew  over  the  water,  and  in  the  tangled 
water-way  of  Willow  Bend  I  lost  sight  of 
him  altogether.  I  looked  about  for  several 
minutes,  but  saw  nothing  of  the  man  or  boat. 
He  could  not  have  returned  to  the  wreck 
without  passing  me,  unless  both  man  and  boat 
went  under  the  surface  of  the  water.  I  had 
no  inclination  to  return,  and  I  knew  that,  if 
Winkle  wished  to  elude  me,  to  search  for 
him  was  useless ;  so  I  slowly  rowed  my  boat 
to  his  landing,  and,  tying  my  boat,  took  pos- 
session of  the  cabin.  It  was  too  ancient  and 
fish-like  for  a  summer  day,  and  I  walked  to 
the  spring  near  by,  and  there,  curled  up  on  the 
moss,  awaiting  his  return,  and  reading  the 


i68      Winkle:  the  Eel-Man 

meanwhile.  As  usual,  I  fell  asleep,  and  was 
roused  an  hour  later  by  Winkle  giving  me  a 
hearty  shake.  In  an  instant  I  was  on  my 
feet;  but  what  a  change  had  come  over 
Winkle !  His  old,  odd  ways  were  gone ; 
the  charm  of  his  unique  manner  and  even 
appearance  was  a  thing  of  the  past.  He  was 
now  merely  a  bundle  of  irritated  nerves  that 
excessive  stimulation  was  steadily  breaking 
down.  I  foresaw  his  end  was  near,  but  did 
not  venture  to  ask  any  questions  or  offer  any 
advice.  I  knew  that  to  preach  temperance 
would  only  provoke  wrath.  I  was  genuinely 
sorry  for  him,  but  helpless  so  far  as  check- 
ing his  downfall  was  concerned.  I  could 
only  stand  aside  and  let  him  go  his  own 
pace. 

And  the  end  came.  Two  days  later,  I 
was  summoned,  before  daylight,  to  his  cabin. 
He  had  been  found,  by  chance,  by  a  passing 
fisherman.  As  the  first  rays  of  the  rising 
sun  glinted  through  the  trees  I  entered  the 
shanty,  and  there  found  Winkle,  dead,  lying 
on  his  face.  His  arms  were  outstretched, 
and  in  one  hand  he  held  a  canvas  shot-bag 
partly  filled  with  coin,  and  in  the  other  was 
a  rusty  nail.  What  the  latter  meant  was 


Winkle:  the  Eel-Man      169 

puzzling  at  first,  but,  when  the  light  was 
stronger,  I  saw  that  the  man,  now  dead,  had 
scratched  upon  the  floor,  in  unmistakable 
manner,  these  letters : 


A; 


!-»  Vs 


I  have  had  somewhat  to  do  with  hiero- 
glyphics and  traced  the  significance  of  Indian 
messages  scratched  upon  slabs  of  stone,  but 
here  was  something  new.  My  free  transla- 
tion ran :  C.  Abbott :  bis  own  /  or,  in  still 
plainer  language,  Winkle  meant  me  to  have 
what  money  he  had  left.  I  sought  no  one's 
advice,  but  afted  as  probate  judge,  executor, 
and  legatee.  No  harm  was  done.  After 
Winkle  was  buried  there  was  nothing  left. 


WINDFALLS 


"  Too  long,  too  long  we  kept  the  level  plain, 

The   tilled,  tamed    fields,  the    bending  orchard 

bough  ! 
The    byre,    the   barn,    the   threshing-floor,   the 

plough 

Too  long  have  been  our  theme  and  our  refrain  ! 
Enough,  my  brothers,  of  this  Doric  strain." 

NOT  a  bit  of  it !    As  yet  there  has  been 
but  the  twanging  of  the  fiddle-strings, 
and  the  performance  has  not  yet  commenced. 
"  You     forget     Thoreau,"    perhaps    the 
quoted  authoress  remarks. 

I  forget  nothing.  Simplicity  has  not  yet 
had  a  worthy  song  in  her  honor.  These 
humble  themes  are  not  beneath  the  notice 
of  sound  common  sense.  Laurel  gathered 
from  the  mountain's  brow  is  no  greener 
than  that  growing  lower  down  the  rocky 
slopes.  Grant  the  grandeur  of  the  mighty 
sea,  but  who  has  gathered  all  the  treasures 
170 


Windfalls  171 

of  a  mill-pond.  The  little  clump  of  trees 
near  my  chamber  window  is  forest  enough 
for  a  lifetime.  Every  one  of  the  two  hun- 
dred trees  has  fifty  branches,  and  here  are 
hidden  ten  thousand  marvels  that  are  yet  to 
be  made  plain.  The  modest  plateau  that 
rises  but  seventy  feet  above  the  river  is 
sufficient  of  a  "  cliff  upreared  in  liquid 
air"  when  its  modest  tree-growth  attracts 
the  birds  and  shelters  many  a  beast  that 
startles  the  unthinking  traveller  who  passes 
in  the  night.  Here,  too,  in  such  common- 
place surroundings  have  been  generations  of 
jolly  good  men  and  women,  brave  as  lions 
and  gentle  as  lambs, — a  great  deal  better 
every  healthy  way  than  most  of  the  world's 
heroes  and  fame-crowned  beauties.  Perhaps 
it  is  the  frost  in  the  air  of  this  bright 
October  morning  that  has  benumbed  my 
wit.  I  am  not  sure  at  what  the  authoress 
I  have  quoted  is  driving,  so  I  will  take 
myself  to  the  orchard,  seeking  the  fruit 
of  "  the  bending  orchard  bough,"  as  I  had 
planned,  and  indulge  in  simple  pleasures. 
Give  me  plain  substantiality  in  all  things. 
A  hickory  staff  is  better  reliance  than  many 
a  gold-headed  cane.  The  bow  of  the  archer 


172  Windfalls 

was  ruined  by  too  elaborate  carving.  My 
rough,  stout  walking-stick  helps  me  in  many 
ways,  for  it  is  long  and  light,  and  I  like  to 
probe  the  tangles  before  I  tread  on  them, 
and  many  a  four-footed  creature  has  bounded 
away  at  my  prodding  that  I  might  not 
otherwise  have  seen.  A  basket  is  an  abomi- 
nation, a  bag  or  bundle  the  climax  of  hor- 
rors, but  a  well-chosen  stick  is  a  worthy 
companion  that  clogs  neither  my  steps  nor 
thinking. 

The  best  orchard,  to  my  taste,  within  easy 
reach  is  the  oldest ;  now  so  very  old  its  his- 
tory is  forgotten.  Every  trunk  is  hollow, 
every  branch  lichen  coated.  Dilapidated  as 
is  every  one  of  the  ninety-odd  trees,  the 
days  of  their  fruition  is  not  yet  over.  Sap 
crowds  up  their  wrinkled  trunks  and  stirs 
the  crooked  branches  to  flowering  every 
April,  just  as  it  did  in  the  heyday  of  their 
youthful  vigor  almost  a  century  ago;  and 
much  of  the  fruit  kindly  matures  though  the 
farmer  does  not  attempt  to  stay  the  ravages 
of  insefts  beyond  protecting  the  birds  that 
come  and  go  and  live  the  summer  long  happy 
lives  wandering  up  and  down  the  orchard's 
long,  leafy  aisles.  There  is  still,  as  there 


Windfalls  173 

will  be  while  a  tree  is  standing,  the  annual 
gathering  of  the  autumn  fruit,  the  carting  to 
the  cider-press,  and  then  the  desertion  of  the 
place  by  all  men  but  myself,  to  whom  its 
generous  owner  has  made  over  the  right  to 
the  windfalls,  first  satisfying  himself  that 
there  are  none ;  and  verily,  few  are  the 
apples  that  escape  his  searching  eyes.  I 
count  it  excellent  good  luck  if  there  are 
one  or  two,  at  most,  to  each  tree.  Indeed, 
did  he  think  I  ever  found  as  many  as  a  hun- 
dred apples  his  agreement  would  be  recalled 
until  at  least  nine-tenths  of  them  were 
gathered.  "  I  never  saw  nothin*  so  small ; 
it  was  only  worth  •  thank'ee' "  is  this  man's 
motto.  What  an  eye  the  needle  must  have 
that  he  can  crawl  through  !  He  is  so  stingy 
that  I  have  since  early  childhood  tried  my 
best  to  get  ahead  of  him,  and  usually  I  do. 
Just  how  is  quite  another  matter. 

Just  now  I  am  not  concerned  with  my 
neighbor,  but  his  belongings.  His  orchard 
to-day  is  of  more  profit  to  me  than  to  him, 
and  in  the  long  run  I  gather  goodlier  fruit 
from  it  than  has  ever  been  carted  to  his  bins. 
His  cider-press  yields  me  many  an  enjoyable 
hour  every  autumn  that  he  would  like  to 


174  Windfalls 

exchange  for  his  anxious  moments  when 
vinegar  is  down  in  price  and  he  deeper 
down  in  spirits.  I  have  a  profound  regard 
for  the  old  cider-mill.  It  is  a  quaint  struc- 
ture, with  a  primitive  atmosphere  about  it 
that  dissolves  the  present  and  transmutes  the 
crude  fafts  of  the  moment  to  delightful  day- 
dreams. There  is  music,  too,  in  the  hum 
of  bees  and  angry  buzzing  of  wasps  that  so 
love  to  sip  the  lingering  sweets  of  drying 
heaps  of  pomace.  When  there  is  nobody 
about, — press,  orchard,  and  old  vinegar-sheds 
all  deserted, — then  I  find  them  crowded. 
Here,  if  anywhere,  you  can  call  back  the 
quaint  characters  that  were  one  time  the  busy 
men  of  the  neighborhood. 

October  now ;  it  is  natural  to  stop  at  the 
cider-press  when  passing  by  and  test,  with 
a  rye  straw,  the  most  recently  filled  barrels. 
Luckily  for  me,  the  owner  cannot  charge  for 
an  unmeasurable  quantity,  and  my  assurance 
that  the  quality  was  good  was  his  only  recom- 
pense. The  cider,  as  such,  was  not  ready 
for  market,  and  its  owner  had  not  yet  turned 
his  attention  to  the  pump. 

A  little  later  the  flicker's  rattling  cry  and 
the  shrill  chirp  of  a  suspicious  robin  greeted 


Windfalls  175 

me  as  I  crept  through  the  rails  of  the  old 
fence  and  stood  in  the  shade  of  the  nearest 
tree,  a  wine-sap  that  had  borne  most  excel- 
lent fruit  in  its  day.  I  did  not  scan  the  half- 
leafless  branches,  but  looked  into  the  hollow 
of  the  trunk,  where,  a  year  ago,  I  had  placed 
a  convenient  hickory  club,  that  had  brought 
down  for  me  many  a  stray  apple.  Drawing 
out  the  club  I  disturbed  a  pretty  white-footed 
mouse.  What  strange  impulses  we  have  !  I 
threw  the  club  after  the  retreating  mouse  and 
barely  missed  it.  How  persistently  the  savage 
lingers  in  us !  I  have  found  that  a  very  large 
proportion  of  our  wild-life  is  associated  with 
hollow  trees,  and  particularly  with  hollow 
apple-trees.  This  is  quite  readily  accounted 
for.  The  orchard  is,  for  much  of  the  time, 
a  well-stored  magazine,  with  no  locks  guard- 
ing the  supplies.  The  fruit  attra&s  the  in- 
se&s  ;  these  attraft  birds  ;  these,  in  turn,  draw 
the  carnivorous  mammals.  Again,  an  orchard 
is  not  as  frequently  entered  as  the  fields  or 
even  pastures.  The  rows  of  trees  become  a 
new  forest,  and  afford,  when  they  are  grown 
as  old  as  these,  safe  and  snug  harbors  for  nearly 
every  form  of  terrestrial  life.  Even  such 
large  creatures  as  the  raccoon  and  opossum 


176  Windfalls 

are  sometimes  here  at  home ;  the  skunk, 
mink,  and  weasel  find  it  a  convenient  if  not 
congenial  spot,  the  skunk  being  enough  of  a 
climber  to  reach  the  entrance  to  a  hollow 
if  the  trunk  of  the  tree  was  not  perfectly 
straight  up  and  down ;  and  how  seldom  this 
occurs,  or,  more  correctly  perhaps,  how 
frequently  the  other  or  leaning  position  is 
found.  I  never  saw  an  orchard  where  all 
the  tree-trunks  were  perpendicular,  and  I  re- 
call several  trees  that  were  but  little  removed 
from  a  horizontal  position.  Mice  naturally 
abound,  the  apple-seeds  affording  abundance 
of  food,  and  bats  will  take  their  diurnal  sleep 
in  a  hollow  trunk  as  comfortably  as  in  a  barn 
or  the  attic  of  the  farm-house.  Indeed,  un- 
less the  farmer  keeps  very  alert  dogs  that  are 
disposed  to  hunting,  the  old  orchard  will 
prove  excellent  hunting-ground  for  the  natu- 
ralist interested  in  fur-bearing  animals. 

The  ornithology  of  an  orchard  is,  as 
might  be  expected,  that  of  the  neighbor- 
hood. There  are  no  birds  averse  to  clus- 
tered apple-trees,  and  very  many  find  it  the 
only  attractive  feature  of  the  farm.  This  is 
true  all  the  year  round,  and  never  do  snow- 
birds and  tree-sparrows,  in  winter,  seem 


Windfalls  177 

more  at  home  than  among  bare  apple- 
boughs.  In  spring  the  conditions  all  favor 
the  congregating  here  of  migratory  warblers. 
No  other  trees  attract  so  much  insert-life, 
and  this  alone  is  the  food  of  these  north- 
bound birds.  Misled  by  text-books  and  the 
common  names  of  many  species,  I  have 
looked  in  vain  for  certain  warblers  among 
pine-trees,  in  swamps,  and  forests  of  decidu- 
ous trees  of  many  species,  and  finally  found 
them  in  the  orchard ;  but  I  have  not  found 
that  this  holds  good  as  to  orchards  of  other 
fruit.  Neither  peach-  nor  pear-trees,  be 
there  dozens  or  hundreds,  seem  particularly 
attractive  to  birds  of  any  species.  How  this 
may  be  in  fruit-growing  distri&s  elsewhere  I 
have  not  been  able  to  learn,  but  my  own  note- 
book, referring  to  a  locality  carefully  studied 
in  Maryland,  shows  that  but  two  per  cent, 
of  all  the  nests  I  found  were  in  an  orchard 
of  about  five  thousand  trees.  In  the  case  of 
summer  birds  and  of  those  that  remain 
throughout  the  year,  our  resident  species,  it 
is  found  that  no  other  locality  suits  them 
equally  well.  The  ornithology  of  an  old 
apple-tree  would  make  a  very  interesting 
book.  I  will  not  give  the  list  of  birds  I 


178  Windfalls 

have  found  nesting  in  and  on  one  such  tree. 
It  would  not  be  prudent ;  but  I  would  like 
to  compare  it  with  the  memoranda  made  by 
some  open-eyed  observer. 

This  day,  cool  and  crisp  as  frost  can  make 
it,  there  are  many  small  sparrows  in  the 
brown  grasses  between  the  trees,  and  many 
a  chickadee,  downy  woodpecker,  creeper, 
and  nuthatch  busy  overhead.  Perhaps  a 
very  precise  person  would  say  there  was  the 
sound  of  unceasing  activity  instead  of  music, 
but  the  effeft  of  these  birds'  voices  was  not 
so  commonplace  as  that,  but  in  every  way 
agreeable,  and  not  suggestive  of  the  rattle 
and  clamor  of  a  crowded  city  street.  The 
highways  of  the  bird-world  were  filled,  but 
the  busy  crowd  was  more  like  that  of  con- 
tented laborers  whistling  while  they  worked. 
It  is  cheering  to  note  the  happy  manner  of 
our  winter  birds.  Not  one  regrets  that  it  is 
the  dreary  time  of  the  year,  and  certainly  the 
orchard  is  now  an  ideal  hunting-ground. 
No  storm  is  so  violent  but  the  shelter 
afforded  by  the  hollow  trees  proves  equal  to 
all  demands,  and  that  such  shelter  is  accept- 
able to  birds  I  have  proved  by  examination 
during  the  prevalence  of  both  rain  and  snow. 


Windfalls  179 

The  hollows  occupied  by  owls  or  any  animal 
other  than  a  mouse  would  be  avoided,  but 
there  is  usually  room  enough  for  all.  I  was 
glad  to  see  and  hear  the  song-sparrows.  In 
a  corner  of  the  orchard  there  has  long  been 
a  heap  of  rubbish.  Trifling  windfalls  from 
the  door-yard  pines,  woody  weeds  that  per- 
sisted in  springing  up  where  only  modest 
grass  should  grow,  and  the  thousand  and  one 
odds  and  ends  that  should  have  been  burned 
were  gathered  here,  and  everybody  has  been 
too  busy  or  too  lazy  to  apply  a  match.  The 
growing  heap  has  been  an  eyesore  for  years, 
but  to-day  it  was  almost  pretty.  The  song- 
sparrows  were  in  possession,  and  were  as 
tuneful  as  in  the  early  April  days,  when  they 
took  time  by  the  forelock  and  squatted  here, 
knowing  that  a  nest  in  such  a  tangle  was 
comparatively  safe.  To-day  the  brush-heap 
is  positively  pretty :  the  dead  twigs  in  admi- 
rable disorder  captivating  the  eye,  because 
the  home  of  sparrows  whose  songs  ever 
captivate  the  ear.  For  an  hour  these  birds 
declared  their  happiness  from  their  chosen 
home,  and  while  they  sang  I  listened.  Then 
the  shadow,  but  that  only,  of  a  sharp-shinned 
hawk  fell  upon  them,  and  I  took  a  few  forward 


i8o  Windfalls 

steps  and  sought  my  favorite  tree  in  the 
orchard, — preferred  not  for  its  fruit,  but  its 
general  patriarchal  appearance  and  glorious 
show  of  strength,  a  seek-no-farther.  Sug- 
gestive name !  I  sat  here,  where  I  could 
look  far  off  in  every  direction,  and  dreamed  of 
the  windfalls  of  other  days  and  gave  no  heed 
to  possible  fruit  hidden  from  the  sharp  eyes 
of  the  orchard's  miserly  owner.  I  confined 
my  thoughts  to  apples,  for  that  phrase,  "  the 
windfalls  of  other  days,"  is  but  a  hollow 
mockery  to  me  when  given  any  wider  appli- 
cation. 

Are  our  apples  as  good  as  those  that 
ripened  and  made  glad  the  whiskey-warmed 
hearts  of  our  sedate  Quaker  grandfathers  ? 
I  think  I  would  recognize  to-day  the  flavor 
of  a  golden  pippin  in  its  prime,  a  belle  fleur 
that  was  perfect,  or  the  incomparable  rich- 
ness of  a  winter  pearmain  or  a  genuine  sheep- 
nose.  The  gnarly,  stunted,  distorted,  taste- 
less fruit  that  I  now  gather  from  centenarian 
trees  has  only  the  charm  that  imagination 
calls  up.  There  is  excellent  fruit  to  be 
gathered  in  our  young  orchards,  but  has  it 
not  lost  the  full  flavor  of  old-time  favorites  ? 
We  have  a  variety  of  opinions  on  the  subjeft. 


Windfalls  181 

Perhaps  my  own  taste  has  changed,  but 
apples  nowadays  seem  to  me  insipid,  and  I 
would  rather  munch  the  sour,  stunted  yield 
of  this  old  orchard,  and  indulge  in  a  day- 
dream, than  eat  the  choicest  of  the  polished 
prize  fruit  exhibited  at  the  county  fair. 

It  has  sometimes,  but  very  seldom,  hap- 
pened that  the  summer's  sun  warms  the  pro- 
jecting cheek  of  some  stray  apple  until  it 
acquires  the  richness  of  old-time  prosperous 
days,  and  when  such  rare  specimens  come  to 
hand  there  come  with  them  visions  of  other 
years  when  insipid  fruit  was  the  exception, 
not  the  rule.  The  last  winter  pearmain 
that  I  tasted  was  one  of  these.  Grandpa's 
strange  dumpling  and  his  look  of  astonish- 
ment became  as  vivid  as  on  the  day  of  the 
occurrence  of  the  incident.  Auntie  was  busy 
making  dumplings  for  dinner,  and  when  her 
back  was  turned  I  slipped  my  painted  rubber 
ball — it  was  decorated  with  a  grinning  face  in 
gaudy  colors — into  a  mass  of  dough,  and  it 
was  duly  put  in  its  net-work  bag  and  placed 
with  other  dumplings  in  the  pot,  and  auntie 
was  none  the  wiser.  It  was  not  to  be  dis- 
tinguished from  the  others  when  it  came 
upon  the  table,  and  how  I  wondered  who 


l82  Windfalls 

would  get  it !  The  anxious  moments  dragged 
wearily  along,  and  then,  as  luck  would  have 
it,  because  of  the  plump  appearance  of  that 
particular  dumpling,  auntie  placed  it  before 
her  father.  He  was  busily  engaged  in  a  bit 
of  argument  at  the  time,  and,  without  looking 
at  his  plate,  covered  it  with  syrup  and  then 
pressed  it  with  his  fork.  It  did  not  yield 
as  a  dumpling  should,  and,  pressing  it  still 
harder,  it  rolled  from  under  his  hand  and 
bounded  across  the  table.  "  Well !"  ex- 
claimed grandpa.  I  didn't  look  up.  "  Good- 
ness !"  said  auntie,  in  a  startled  way ;  but  I 
had  to  raise  my  eyes,  and  I  caught  just  a 
glimpse  of  my  rubber  ball,  from  which  the 
dough  had  peeled,  and  that  grinning  face 
was  staring  at  auntie.  Her  later  exclama- 
tions and  grandpa's  tut't  tut  were  too  much. 
I  left  my  dumpling  untasted,  nor  looked 
back  until  well  hidden  in  the  hill-side  woods. 
There  has  been  but  little  chilly  weather 
as  yet,  but  enough  to  change  the  greenery 
of  summer  to  less  cheerful  tints,  for  the 
asters  and  golden-rod  do  not  quite  replace 
the  brightness  of  unaltered  foliage.  As 
often  before,  I  notice  how  frost  kills  in  an 
artistic  way,  and  not  in  the  fashion  of  the 


Windfalls  183 

great  leveller  Death.  The  former  leaves 
no  taint  of  corruption  behind  it.  These 
dead  weeds  to-day  are  pleasant  companions. 
It  is  something  to  be  surrounded  by  cheerful 
corpses,  seeing  we  have  so  many  uncheerful, 
living  ones  of  our  own  kind  to  deal  with 
every  day.  I  prefer  dried  weeds,  broken, 
brown  and  prostrate,  to  semi-defunft  nonen- 
tities in  human  shape. 

Searching  the  rough  ground  beneath  several 
trees,  I  found  an  apple  at  last ;  a  wrinkled, 
wasp-stung,  sour,  tasteless  apple,  and  its 
general  appearance,  I  do  not  know  why, 
recalled  Humphrey  Fagan,  the  gleaner.  He 
was  a  boy  of  six  when  the  battle  of  Trenton 
was  fought,  and  knew  more  about  it  than 
some  of  those  that  have  had  a  good  deal  to 
say  of  the  affair ;  but  then,  he  was  old  Hum- 
phrey Fagan,  the  gleaner,  and  what  did  he 
know?  What  did  he  not  know  in  certain 
directions  ?  He  was  the  only  man  in  the 
neighborhood  to  whom  the  term  "  gleaner" 
was  ever  applied.  This  phase  of  peasant 
life  was  never  represented  before  nor  since 
about  here.  Everybody  else  was  a  farmer 
or  a  farm-hand,  except  the  few  too  lazy  to 
be  anything.  The  idea  of  gleaning  never 


184  Windfalls 

occurred  to  any  one  but  Humphrey.  He 
had  heard,  perhaps,  of  the  far  better  con- 
ditions that  prevailed  in  Europe,  and,  cheer- 
fully accepting  poverty,  lived  a  jollier  life 
on  what  he  was  permitted  to  glean  from  the 
fields — every  one  of  which  he  knew  as  no 
one  else  did — than  did  nine-tenths  of  the 
owners  of  these  broad  acres.  He  lived  to 
be  ninety,  and  at  peace  with  himself.  When 
I  knew  him  he  was  so  bent  that  his  spine 
formed  a  considerable  are  of  a  circle,  and  so 
brought  his  face  towards  the  ground  and  not 
very  far  from  it.  I  have  never  seen  any 
other  man  or  woman  so  nearly  "  bent 
double,"  to  use  an  inaccurate  phrase ;  and 
of  course  his  gleaning  days  were  over,  but 
not  his  days  of  usefulness  and  independence. 
His  knowledge  of  gardening  was  encyclo- 
pedic, and  to  the  end  he  supported  himself  by 
caring  for  such  enclosures.  Never  a  weed  grew 
where  Humphrey  attended.  The  children 
thought  he  used  his  huge  hooked  nose  as  a  hoe, 
and  we  teased  him  a  little  on  this  score;  but  he 
was  our  stanchest  friend,  and  many  the  quaint 
story  he  told  when  taking  his  nooning,  and 
many  the  old  pewter  button,  shoe-buckle,  or 
copper  coin  and  other  colonial  trifle  he  gave  us. 


Windfalls  185 

"  I  was  a  boy  o'  six,"  he  has  told  me  twenty 
times,  "  when  they  fit  with  the  British  up  in 
town,  and  mother  shut  me  and  my  brother 
up  in  the  cellar.  We  didn't  want  to  miss 
the  fun  and  didn't  know  o'  no  danger. 
Brother  raised  the  big  cellar-door  just  a 
little,  to  peep  out,  when  the  fellers  came 
runnin'  down  the  street,  and  one  of  'em 
slept  on  the  door  and  sent  me  and  brother 
back  on  the  wood-pile.  I  thought  I  was  in 
the  middle  o'  the  fight,"  and  then  old  Hum- 
phrey would  laugh  in  his  queer  way — like 
a  hen  cackles — and  almost  straighten  him- 
self. "A'ter  a  bit  we  took  another  peep, 
and,  the  racket  bein'  furder  off,  we  slunk  out 
and  legged  it  to  foller  the  noise.  Mammy 
saw  and  hollered,  but  we  kep'  a-runnin',  and 
seen  lots  o'  red-coats;  and  everybody  kep' 
hollerin'  to  come  back,  but  we  was  bound  to 
see  the  fun,  and  we  did  ;"  and  again  the  hen- 
cackle  laugh  would  set  us  off,  a  good  deal 
more  than  his  story.  Just  as  he  recalled  his 
boyish  adventure,  I  recall  his  account  of  it, 
and  how  very  near  seems  the  adlual  occur- 
rence !  To  have  talked  with  one  who  wit- 
nessed the  surrender  of  Colonel  Rahl,  and  so 
figured  in  history,  is  a  pleasanter  recollection 


186  Windfalls 

than  the  dry-as-dust  pages  that  were  to  be 
memorized  at  school, — pages  that  made  no  im- 
pression, save  a  misty  recolle&ion  of  twaddle 
about  men  who  were  supposed  to  have  never 
had  equals  before  nor  since.  Humphrey  Fa- 
gan  had  another  story  that  roused  him  to  in- 
finite aftion  when  he  told  it,  and  doubtless  the 
pain  resulting  from  gesticulating  and  twisting 
his  distorted  body  prevented  its  frequent  rep- 
etition. It  was  necessary  to  hint  in  a  quiet 
way  for  some  time,  and  await  his  pleasure. 
Anything  like  a  demand  was  certain  to  be  met 
with  refusal.  We  could  always  tell  when 
the  story  was  coming.  There  were  certain 
movements  of  the  body  and  a  clearing  of  the 
throat  indicating  that  his  story  was  to  be 
told, — one  in  which  his  manner  went  further 
than  the  matter.  We  would  move  back,  if 
there  happened  to  be  several  children  gath- 
ered to  hear  him,  that  he  might  have  abun- 
dant room  for  the  vigorous  swing  of  his  cane. 
We  almost  fancied  that  he  was  in  reality 
the  king  of  the  Pine  Robbers.  Much  rub- 
bish, by  the  way,  has  been  written  about  the 
Tories.  Everything  they  did  was  devsilish ; 
not  an  aft  of  the  Continental  soldiers  but 
was  righteous.  A  few,  of  course,  were  ras- 


Windfalls  187 

cals ;  but  were  the  patriots  all  saints  ?  At  all 
events,  Apollo  Woodward  was  loyal  to  the 
king,  and  had  as  good  a  right  to  prefer  Corn- 
wallis  to  Washington  as  his  neighbors  had  to 
think  otherwise.  But  the  story  :  Woodward 
and  his  black  horse  and  Timothy  Pagan  with 
his  wall-eyed  sorrel  were  the  only  characters. 
"  D'ye  know,  boys,  what  I  see  in  the  town 
that  day  was  nothin*  to  the  ride  Tolly  Wood- 
ward and  Tim  Fagan  took  one  winter  night. 
They  know'd  aforehand  what  was  goin'  to 
be  after  the  scrimmage  at  the  bridge,  and 
slunk  out  o*  the  village  towards  Pond  Run,  and 
then  made  for  Princeton  way  on  horseback. 
When  in  the  saddle  there  was  nothin'  could 
stop  'em.  They  rid  through  the  woods  at  a 
dead  run  where  none  could  'a*  follered,  and 
when  they  got  to  Stony  Brook,  Tim  gave  his 
horse  a  kickin'  on  the  ribs  to  go  over  at  a 
jump.  The  old  wall-eyed  sorrel  did,  but 
landed  with  a  stake  clean  through  its  breast, 
and  Tim  went  on  till  his  head  landed  on  a 
stone  and  his  neck  broke.  'Polly  Woodward 
went  on  without  knowin'  what  had  happened, 
it  was  that  dark.  He  turned  when  he  missed 
Tim,  and  lost  time  in  lookin',  and  when  the 
light  favored  a  bit  it  was  too  late  to  be  in 


188  Windfalls 

them  parts,  and  he  took  to  the  woods.  There 
was  some  as  might  see  him  'fore  he  come  up 
with  the  British.  And  what's  more," — here 
old  Humphrey's  manner  changed  and  he 
lowered  his  voice,  as  if  there  was  danger 
still  in  telling  his  story, — "  what's  more,  he 
was  home  in  time  to  turn  up  at  Crosswicks 
askin'  for  news,  innercent-like,  when  word 
came  o'  the  battle  o'  Princeton ;"  and,  in  a 
still  more  mysterious  way,  continued,  "  they 
do  say  that  hoss  o'  his'n  never  tired,  and  his 
feet  didn't  touch  the  ground  when  goin' 
through  the  woods,  but  was  carried  by 
spooks  till  there  was  good  footin'  ag'in. 
You  see,"  and  we  children  felt  a  strange 
importance  in  being  the  recipients  of  the 
opinion ;  "  you  see,  if  things  had  V  gone 
straight,  Washin'ton  wouldn't  'a'  played  his 
little  game,  and  things  might  'a'  been  differ- 
ent." Is  it  strange  that,  as  children,  we 
were  sorry  that  "  things  didn't  go  differ- 
ent," and  the  Tories,  in  time,  become  the 
rulers  of  the  land  ?  Apollo  Woodward 
was  a  hero  in  our  minds  before  we  had 
heard  of  the  Revolutionary  generals.  They 
came  later,  and  not  in  a  way  to  eclipse  our 
earlier  favorites.  I  have  heard  old  Hum- 


Windfalls  189 

phrey  say  that  "  Tolly  Woodward  would  'a* 
been  a  big  'un  among  'em  if  the  British  had 
got  the  best  of  it,  for  he  wasn't  a  man  like 
the  common  run  of  'em  ;"  and  then  he  would 
give  his  head  a  mournful  shake,  his  eyes  lose 
their  lustre,  and  the  man  would  wilt  like 
grass  before  the  fire,  and  become  the  strange, 
quiet  gleaner  again,  who  lived  all  his  life  on 
the  little  his  neighbors  left  behind  them. 
Very  taciturn  now,  except  with  children, 
yet  a  great  talker  when  a  young  man,  so  re- 
port goes.  Perhaps  he  had  told  too  much 
in  early  days,  for  his  old  mother  remarked 
on  one  occasion,  "  Yer  tongue's  big  enough 
to  scoop  out  all  yer  wits  at  once."  It  is  a 
pity  he  had  not  been  carefully  interviewed ; 
but  as  it  was  his  tales  gained  no  credence, 
and  are  nearly  all  forgotten  now.  This 
often  happens.  The  jewels  slip  through  our 
fingers  and  we  are  happy  with  empty  caskets. 
Humphrey  Pagan  died,  as  I  always  put  it, 
decently  and  in  order.  He  was  weeding 
radishes  in  my  neighbor's  garden  when 
Death  plucked  him  as  a  weed  that  had  long 
enough  encumbered  this  prosy  corner  of  the 
earth. 

In  the  distance  I  see  the  west  end  of  a 


Windfalls 


brick  dwelling,  and,  as  the  light  of  the  after- 
noon sun  falls  upon  it,  the  letters  I.  P.  stand 
boldly  out,  —  Isaac  Pearson.  He,  too,  was  a 
lively  Tory  that  gave  the  patriots  no  end  of 
trouble.  Those  stirring  Revolutionary  times 
brought  some  strange  men  to  the  surface,  and 
the  journals  of  the  Tories  would  prove  in- 
stru&ive  reading  now  that  the  bitterness  of 
the  conflict  has  died  out.  It  is  possible  to 
look  calmly  on  the  whole  affair,  now  that 
more  than  a  century  has  elapsed  and  To- 
ries have  lost  their  blackness.  But  who 
cares  for  the  under  dog  in  any  fight  ?  is  the 
common  exclamation  when  its  claims  are 
set  forth.  True,  nobody  does  during  the 
heat  of  conflict  ;  but,  then,  who  should  care 
for  the  clamor  of  a  crowd  ?  Not  one  man 
in  a  thousand  is  able  to  calmly  think,  nor 
more  than  one  in  a  million  who  is  fit  to  gov- 
ern. The  Tories  had  logic  in  abundance  on 
their  side,  but  lacked  numbers  to  enforce 
it.  They  did  not  lack  in  brains.  I  have 
Apollo  Woodward's  autograph  before  me 
as  I  write  these  words.  It  is  a  John  Han- 
cock specimen  of  chirography,  and  shows, 
if  handwriting  means  anything,  that  he  was 
a  leader  among  men.  We  are  still  taught 


Windfalls  191 

that  these  Tories  were  bad  men,  cruel,  and 
all  that ;  but,  then,  you  may  remember  that 
Somebody  who  is  everywhere  is  not  as  black 
as  he  is  painted,  and  the  same  of  the  loyal 
subje&s  of  King  George.  They  had  as 
much  at  stake  as  their  neighbors,  and  no 
one  can  doubt  their  bravery.  For  myself,  I 
rejoice  in  the  Tory  blood  that  tingles  to  my 
finger-tips  when  I  think  of  a  certain  old 
uncle,  four  generations  back. 

But  let  us  to  more  cheerful  matters.  The 
wind  is  gently  stirring  the  topmost  leaves, 
but  all  the  under  branches  are  at  rest.  The 
faint  rustling  of  these  favored  leaves  is  a 
pleasant  sound,  for  wind  is  a  great  deal  more 
than  mere  atmosphere  in  motion.  That  is 
quite  enough  when  the  motion  kills  and 
destroys,  but  I  have  naught  to  do  with  the 
pranks  of  a  tempest  or  devilishness  of  a  tor- 
nado. I  am  thankful  to  have  lived  beyond 
their  reach,  or  to  have  lived,  thus  far,  where 
mischief  is  the  least  that  any  wind  has  ac- 
complished. All  else  that  it  can  do  it  has 
done  abundantly.  I  recall  one  sunny  early 
autumn  day,  when  with  balm,  boneset,  pen- 
nyroyal, and  spicewood  distilling  odors  that 
told  of  every  phase  of  the  youth  of  the 


1 92  Windfalls 

year's  old  age,  I  listened  to  the  steady  hum 
of  unseen  crickets  that  did  not  intermit; 
a  steady,  unbroken  sound,  as  if  earth  was 
winding  herself  up  for  another  year's  aftiv- 
ity.  Then,  suddenly,  there  was  neither 
scent  nor  sound.  A  noisy  silence  filled  the 
air, — the  wind  was  blowing.  Wind  is  the 
great  silencer,  and  yet  is  itself  impotent 
when  unheard.  That  morning  it  was  the 
first  blast  of  the  autumn  wind  that  plucks 
the  dying  leaf,  but  brings  a  singing  bird  to 
take  its  place.  Leaves  now  will  soon  be  a 
feature  of  the  past, — shadowy  figures  that 
memory  but  dreamily  recalls, — but  in  their 
place  are  hundreds  of  cheerful  sparrows  from 
the  northern  woods.  This  is  a  compensa- 
tion worth  considering ;  and  there  is  little 
logic  in  moaning  over  the  sad,  sighing,  pro- 
phetic autumn  wind.  What  if  it  does  hint 
of  winter  and  the  fierce  wind  that  then 
seems  to  be  rejoicing  over  the  victory  of 
darkness  over  light,  of  death  over  life,  of 
desolation  over  prosperity.  So  we  hear  of 
it,  and  what  better  proof  of  the  world's 
ignorance  of  what  winter  really  is.  Winter 
is  the  flood-tide  of  intellectuality ;  and  the 
brain-power  that  has  moved  and  will  move 


Windfalls  193 

the  world,  and  give  to  it  the  perfeft  fruit  of 
man's  ingenuity,  dwells  in  those  northern 
climes  where  there  is  a  long,  bright,  health- 
giving,  thought-inspiring  winter. 

There  would  be  little  satisfaction  in  eat- 
ing a  windfall  apple  were  it  not  for  its 
suggestiveness.  I  never  came  into  this 
orchard  for  food.  I  had  long  since  starved 
had  this  been  necessary.  But  to  day-dream 
is  my  errand.  I  was  ever  cautioned  when  a 
child  about  eating  cheese  at  night,  lest  I 
should  see  my  grandmother.  I  never  eat  the 
begrudged  sour  apples  of  my  miserly  neigh- 
bor but  I  do  see  my  grandfather,  and  I  am 
right  glad  of  it.  An  old  orchard  is  the  en- 
trance gate  to  the  fields  of  retrospection,  and 
there  is  much  joy  in  fondly  calling  back 
"  the  good  old  times"  that  you  know  only 
through  report.  The  comparisons  between 
a  long-dead  yesterday  and  the  present  mo- 
ment afford  endless  entertainment,  but  do 
not  spoil  the  sport  with  the  rot  of  hero 
worship.  Do  not  believe  that  all  the  great 
people  are  dead.  There  are  others  quite 
their  equal  awaiting  their  opportunity.  Alas  ! 
this  may  never  come.  But  how  unwise  to 
discard  the  old  ways  and  objecis  because  of 


1Q4  Windfalls 

their  age !  Hold  fast  that  which  is  good, 
even  though  it  was  old  before  the  pyramids 
were  built. 

I  love  to  loiter :  to  do  so,  in  spite  of  the 
dictionary,  is  not  to  be  lazy  nor  idle  nor 
careless  necessarily.  When  I  expressed  this 
opinion,  it  was  claimed  that  I  did  not  loiter 
when  out  of  doors,  but  sauntered.  I  turned 
back  to  the  dictionary  and  think  still  that  I  do 
loiter,  and  I  love  to  do  so.  It  is  not  strange. 
I  never  was  sent  on  that  childish  horror,  an 
errand,  that  "  don't  loiter"  was  rung  in  my 
ears.  I  always  did  and  always  shall.  Haste 
and  method  are  well  enough  for  youth  and 
men  of  science,  but  let  me  go  my  own  gait, 
and  I  will  talk  all  day  to  blooming  thistles,  if 
I  choose ;  or  write  my  name  in  dust,  for  the 
first  chance  breeze  to  obliterate.  What  a 
silent,  slow,  but  sure  undertaker  is  the  dust ! 
There  is  not  a  withered  weed  or  blasted 
grass-blade  but  dust  finds  for  it  a  covering. 
We  in  time  are  to  return  to  dust,  but  the  lat- 
ter meets  us  more  than  half-way.  It  is  forever 
on  the  lookout  for  the  cessation  of  some  ac- 
tivity, and  falls  upon  it  slowly,  silently,  but 
sure.  I  never  took  a  quick  step  in  this  old 
orchard, — the  surroundings  do  not  permit  of 


Windfalls  195 

it, — and  look  long  at  the  windfalls,  often, 
before  I  stoop  to  gather  them.  It  is  pre- 
eminently a  loitering  place,  and  yet  where 
we  can  never  be  quite  inaftive.  If  the  trees 
do  not  appeal  to  me,  as  is  sometimes  the 
case,  the  birds  in  the  branches  will  surely  do 
so ;  or,  if  they  are  gone,  then  the  weeds  that 
have  not  been  crushed  beyond  recognition. 
There  is  always  an  aggressive  feature  that 
attacks  your  eye  or  ear  or  nose, — an  assertive 
something  that  holds  you  back,  and  you  not 
only  loiter,  but  tarry  longer  than  you  in- 
tended. This  is  the  peculiar  merit  of  an 
orchard ;  it  is  a  happy  combination  of  both 
field  and  forest.  The  hermit  of  Notting- 
ham recorded  in  his  journal,  "  If  I  must 
ever  leave  these  woods,  must  go  again  into 
the  open  country,  then  let  my  cottage  be  in 
an  orchard.  Nowhere  else  do  the  birds 
find  such  congenial  homes,  as  if  man,  for 
once,  had  brought  about  an  improvement 
over  nature.  The  robin  that  sang  in  father's 
orchard  sang  as  never  its  kind  has  done 
since." 

I  have  long  had  very  much  the  same 
fancy.  There  is  a  charm  in  the  shade  of 
long  rows  of  apple-trees  that  is  recognized 


1 96  Windfalls 

at  once,  but  defies  the  senses  just  so  far  that 
you  cannot  analyze  it  nor  describe  it  in 
detail,  even  though  you  come  with  such  a 
purpose ;  and  not,  as  is  my  custom,  to  loiter, 
to  idly  while  away  the  passing  hour,  to 
indulge  in  a  day-dream  over  windfalls  and 
reluctantly  depart. 


MY  NEIGHBOR'S  WOOD-SHED 


THE  good  old-fashioned  folk  of  the  last 
century  built  for  their  children  as 
well  as  for  themselves,  and  framed  their 
buildings,  as  they  did  their  lives,  in  such 
manner  as  should  withstand  the  ordinary 
buffetings  of  relentless  time.  This  applies 
to  other  stru&ures  than  their  houses,  and 
the  oak  of  many  a  wood-shed  is  as  firm  to- 
day as  the  rafters  and  joists  of  the  colonial 
dwelling  on  the  same  premises.  It  is  so  at 
my  neighbor's.  There  still  stands  the  old 
wood-shed  that  his  great-grandfather  built, 
and  I  am  envious.  The  idiotic  demands  for 
improvement  and  modernization  caused  mine 
to  be  demolished,  and  now,  when  longing  for 
a  lungful  of  old-time  atmosphere,  I  take  me 
to  this  neighbor's  shed  and  breathe  in  the 
subtle  odors  of  the  scattered  chips, — breathe 
in  strength  with  the  oak  and,  in  fancy,  the 
music  of  many  birds  with  the  odor  of  birch 

197 


198    My  Neighbor's  Wood-Shed 

and  sassafras  chips  of  the  trees  that  came 
from  the  meadows  where,  in  April,  the 
spring  arrivals  of  our  many  birds  are  sure  to 
congregate. 

Somehow  I  never  think  of  the  really  sad 
facl:  that  this  shed  is  the  forest's  charnel- 
house,  and  a  fit  place  wherein  to  drop  more 
honest  tears  than  fall  at  most  funerals.  Is  it 
because  my  neighbor  is  felling  his  forest  and 
not  mine  ?  Probably  ;  and,  as  we  all  know, 
Death's  ravages  among  our  neighbors  excite 
our  curiosity  more  than  our  grief.  We  are 
more  apt  to  be  inquisitive  as  to  the  details 
of  the  physical  collapse  than  of  the  spiritual, 
• — but  I  am  no  preacher. 

How  easy  to  build  a  tree  from  but  a  single 
chip  !  to  see  the  round  of  the  seasons  at  a 
single  glance  when  the  restored  tree  stands 
out  before  us !  Even  the  lid  of  my  old  desk — 
that  was  split,  sawed,  smoothed,  and  shaped 
just  one  hundred  and  thirty-seven  years  ago 
— quits  the  corner  of  my  little  room  and  be- 
comes again  a  stately  walnut,  on  the  bluff  of 
old  Crosswicks,  the  instant  that  I  will  it ! 
And  what  tales  of  wild  adventure  in  colonial 
days  float  vaguely  in  the  mists  of  day-dreams 
such  as  this  ?  The  paw  of  a  puma  may  have 


My  Neighbor's  Wood-Shed    199 

pressed  where  now  my  hand  rests,  and  the 
knife  of  an  Indian  made  the  deep  gash  that 
the  skill  of  the  joiner  has  cunningly  con- 
cealed. 

Here  is  a  piece  of  bark  with  a  neatly  cut 
hole  in  it,  the  work  of  a  woodpecker ;  and 
here  another  chip,  that  has  been  channelled 
by  a  carpenter  bee.  Nothing  but  chips  to 
be  cast  into  the  fire,  yet  written  all  over 
with  unread  history ;  chips  to  be  trampled 
into  the  earth  by  my  garrulous  neighbors, 
who  often  gather  in  force  at  the  wood-shed 
and  chatter  until  the  very  air  is  thick  with 
platitudes. 

But  this  shed  is  something  more  than  a 
shelter  for  firewood :  it  is  a  rich  mine  for  him 
who  is  zoologically  inclined.  It  is  a  great 
place  for  walking-sticks.  I  do  not  mean  peri- 
patetic firewood,  but  those  green  and  brown 
twigs  that  are  generously  legged  and  look 
like  animated  splinters  when  in  motion. 
Curious  insects,  these,  whose  homes  are  not 
here  but  among  the  oaks  of  the  hill-side,  yet 
there  I  see  them  but  seldom ;  here,  quite 
often.  The  last  I  found  was  full  four 
inches  long  and  of  a  beautiful  bright-green 
color.  If  was  cunning,  and  foiled  my  at- 


20O    My  Neighbor's  Wood-Shed 

tempts  to  capture  it  quite  cleverly.  Do  they 
make  a  noise  of  any  kind  ?  Folk-lore  and 
superstition  have  heaped  their  whimseys  on 
the  poor  insecVs  head,  but,  fortunately  for 
it,  the  creature  is  shunned  rather  than  perse- 
cuted. Riley  says  the  walking-stick  works 
destruction  among  oaks,  but  those  about  here 
have  not  shown  much  loss  of  twigs  or  foliage. 
As  is  apt  to  be  the  case,  the  folk-lore  is  mere 
silliness,  and  so  a  fit  plaything  for  scientific 
triflers ;  but  why  the  name  "  spider-killer" 
should  be  common  I  have  never  learned. 
Can  it  arise  from  the  faft  of  the  insecVs 
appearance  being  somewhat  similar  to  that 
of  the  praying  mantis  of  the  Southern 
States  ?  Occasionally  one  of  these  walking- 
sticks  takes  a  step  too  far  and  has  a  foot  in 
the  web  of  a  spider.  Then  there  is  a  com- 
motion, and  I  am  always  a  delighted  spefta- 
tor.  We  cannot  altogether  escape  the  ef- 
fects of  a  non-human  origin.  More  or  less 
of  the  blood-thirsty  tendencies  of  our  ter- 
tiary-era ancestry  will  crop  out  on  occasion. 
The  walking-stick  is  very  apt  to  be  pretty 
well  broken  up  before  he  gets  out  of  the 
way,  and  sometimes  is  hopelessly  disabled. 
Of  course  there  are  hornets  and  wasps  in 


My  Neighbor's  Wood-Shed    201 

the  wood-shed,  but  they  are  always  too  busy 
to  concern  themselves  with  you,  unless  you 
provoke  the  assault.  There  are  only  two 
classes  of  people  who  meddle  with  wasps, — 
fools  and  entomologists.  We  beg  pardon  of 
the  latter  for  this  unavoidable  association. 
One  of  these  hornets  is  busy  all  summer  in 
building  long  rows  of  clay  cells,  and  into 
each  is  placed,  so  to-day's  search  disclosed,  a 
pretty  pink-and-yellow  spider.  I  do  not 
pose  here  as  an  entomologist,  but  the  other 
thing.  I  got  stung.  The  clay  cells  were 
built  with  a  good  deal  of  skill  and  quite 
quickly,  but  the  supply  of  clay  came  from 
one  spot  near  by,  and  so  no  time  was  lost ; 
but  no  time  was  lost  either  in  finding  a 
spider,  a  round,  fat,  pink-and-yellow  one. 
I  followed  the  wasp,  as  best  I  could,  and 
traced  it  to  a  weedy  corner  back  of  the  barn, 
but  no  sign  of  any  such  spider  was  visible  to 
me.  There  were  dozens  of  other  species, 
and  some  were  large  and  ugly  enough  to 
stay  my  near  approach.  I  hurried  back  to 
the  shed  and  found  the  hornet  just  closing 
the  cell  on  such  a  one  as  I  could  not  find. 
Others  of  these  ill-natured  insefts  built  paper 
nests,  and  at  times  buzzed  their  impatience 


2O2    My  Neighbor's  Wood-Shed 

when  a  hat  or  cane  was  brushed  too  near 
their  homes ;  and  frequently  a  black-and- 
white,  noisy  fellow  came  searching  for  house- 
flies,  and  would  depart,  when  a  capture  was 
made,  with  a  buzz  that  sounded  like  the 
"loud  hum  of  satisfaction,"  as  the  news- 
papers have  it,  when  a  dull  speaker  has  the 
luck  to  be  momentarily  brilliant.  All  these 
stinging  inse&s  are  busy,  however  hot  the 
day,  and  their  earnestness  makes  them  enter- 
taining. They  seem  to  be  concentrations 
of  the  day's  fierce  heat,  and  more  like  winged 
flames  than  winged  flies.  It  is  warming  to 
look  at  their  empty  nests  on  a  winter  day,  if 
we  recall  the  August  sunshine  and  parched 
fields  of  the  past  summer.  It  is  down  in  the 
books  that  wasps  and  hornets  occasionally 
disfigure  the  walls  of  dwellings  by  placing 
their  nests  thereon.  They  are  not  so  ugly ; 
they  will  bear  examination,  and  this  is  more 
than  can  be  said  of  many  a  mantel  ornament. 
The  red  admiral  and  painted  beauty  but- 
terflies are  fond  of  the  chips  that  clutter  the 
floor  of  the  wood-shed,  though  every  one  in 
summer  is  dry  and  dusty.  They  have  no 
choice  apparently,  unless  it  be  for  the  clean, 
white  inner  side  of  a  chip.  Is  this  that  they 


My  Neighbor's  Wood-Shed    203 

may  show  themselves  to  greater  advantage, 
or  because  such  surfaces  are  warmer  than  the 
rough  and  darkly  colored  pieces  of  bark  ?  It 
is  hard  to  say,  but  temperature  should  hardly 
enter  into  the  question  when  it  is  over  ninety 
in  the  shade.  The  large  yellow  swallow- 
tailed  butterfly  is  a  frequent  visitor,  and  also 
a  big  blue-black  fellow  that  makes  a  grand 
display  when  the  sun  shines  on  his  wings ; 
but  these  come  and  go  as  if  by  mere  chance. 
It  is  the  smaller  species  that  find  the  place 
fitted  to  their  needs  and  stay  while  the  sun 
shines  dire&ly  in  the  shed.  In  midwinter 
the  dingy  mourning-cloak  butterfly  finds  the 
place  as  attractive  as  its  native  woods,  and 
remains  there  for  many  minutes  at  a  time. 
In  other  words,  they  are  not  so  restless. 
Are  they  attracted  by  the  odor  of  the  chips  ? 
for  some  of  them  are  fresh  and  sappy.  It 
seems  strange  that  they  should  leave  the  wild 
woods  for  civilization,  a  display  of  bad  taste 
on  their  part ;  but  I  always  greet  them  with 
a  hearty  welcome.  There  is  positive  nov- 
elty about  butterflies  in  winter,  and  this  is 
even  more  marked  when  the  inseft  comes 
dancing  down  a  winter  sunbeam  and  enters  a 
prosy  wood-shed.  If  some  one  of  my  neigh- 


204    My  Neighbor's  Wood-Shed 

bors  happens  to  be  present  and  sees  it,  there  is 
sure  to  be  some  idle  remark  about  the  butter- 
fly being  a  sign  of  something.  These  plain 
folk  would  have  everything  be  nothing  of 
itself,  but  a  sign  of  something  else ;  except, 
of  course,  that  their  twaddle  is  a  sign  of 
their  own  silliness.  I  was  delighted  one 
winter  morning  to  have  the  fool  of  the 
neighborhood,  its  single  downright  idiot,  put 
in  an  appearance  just  as  Farmer  Hayfork 
finished  a  long  discourse  on  sure  signs  of  an 
open  winter.  We  were  all  tired,  for  he  was 
one  who  measured  his  value  by  the  length  of 
his  speeches,  and  never  thought  of  the  nerves 
of  his  hearers.  "  Had  he  been  a  preacher," 
it  was  once  remarked,  "  there  would  never 
have  been  a  congregation."  The  idiot  ap- 
peared in  the  nick  of  time.  Hayfork  had 
just  finished,  when  the  fool  blurted  out, 
"  Folks  can  say  what  they  blame  please,  but 
you  can't  tell  nothin'  about  nothin*."  Every- 
body laughed  but  Hayfork,  who  suddenly 
remembered  he  had  something  to  do. 

As  it  is  my  neighbor's  wood-shed,  I  could 
not  keep  these  people  away,  and  it  was  not 
often  that  I  found  it  available  for  meditation 
or  the  excellent  company  that  I  occasionally 


My  Neighbor's  Wood-Shed    205 

met, — many  a  bird,  butterfly,  spider,  centi- 
pede, or  wasp.  I  never  could  tell  just  why 
it  was,  but  a  sunny  day  in  winter  or  a  rainy 
day  in  summer  draws  the  odd  chara&ers  of 
the  neighborhood  to  this  shed  as  tainted 
meat  draws  flies.  It  is  the  more  difficult  to 
explain  because  the  tavern  is  not  far  off,  and 
the  owner  of  the  shed  has  never  been  known 
to  offer  even  a  sample  of  his  vinegar.  He 
was  not  averse  to  company,  on  off  days,  or 
when  there  was  nothing  to  do,  but  he  has 
been  heard  to  remark  anent  the  presence  of 
friends,  "  providin*  it  don't  cost  nothinV 

It  was  at  my  neighbor's  wood-shed  that  I 
first  met  Winkle,  "  the  eel-man,"  and,  hear- 
ing such  strange  stories  about  him,  I  culti- 
vated his  acquaintance  and  held  his  friend- 
ship till  he  died.  He  certainly  was  an  odd 
fish,  but  after  a  while  you  had  the  impression 
that  he  needed  only  education  to  make  a  man 
of  mark.  One  day  in  summer  it  was  told 
in  my  hearing  that  Winkle  saw  a  sturgeon 
in  Crosswicks  Creek,  and,  having  at  hand 
no  spear  or  other  means  of  catching  it,  he 
made  a  bold  dive  and  got  a  grip  that  the 
sturgeon  could  not  loosen,  and  man  and  fish 
went  dashing  down-stream,  nearly  to  the 


206    My  Neighbor's  Wood-Shed 

river,  when  they  landed  on  a  sand-bar  and 
Winkle  came  off  viftor.  How  far  fiftion 
was  mingled  with  fa&  in  this  story  was  of  no 
importance.  It  showed  Winkle  to  be  a  real 
fisherman,  and  I  sought  him  on  all  occasions 
in  preference  to  the  solid  folk  of  the  farm- 
houses that  stuck  to  their  fields  like  leeches, 
sucking  them  dry. 

For  a  time  the  school-teacher  came  on 
Saturday  mornings,  and  was  covertly  disliked 
from  the  first  because  he  monopolized  the 
conversation.  This  conceited  fellow  would 
swing  round  the  corner  as  if  the  world  was 
too  small  for  him  and  expefted  all  present  to 
hold  their  breath  while  he  remained  with 
them.  Then  he  harangued.  Woe  to  him 
who  dared  to  interrupt !  Was  it  not  the 
school-master  who  was  speaking?  I  soon 
wearied  of  the  snob  and  demurred  to  many 
of  his  statements,  and  insisted  when  he  had 
gone  that  it  smacks  of  servility  to  accept  a 
diftum  because  an  individual  has  been  giving 
forth  opinions  with  an  authoritative  ring. 
Because  a  man  snorts  like  a  petty  tyrant  are 
we  to  swallow  his  decisions  willy-nilly  ? 
The  sluggish  wits  of  my  neighbors  were 
finally  aroused.  They  could  remember  noth- 


My  Neighbor's  Wood-Shed    207 

ing  of  all  that  he  said,  from  week  to  week, 
beyond  his  broken  promises.  The  school 
committee  were  not  quite  fools,  but  how 
silly  they  felt  when  the  truth  dawned  upon 
them  that  this  wordy  teacher  was  a  rank 
fraud.  For  such  things  to  flourish,  even  in 
town,  is  not  uncommon.  Glare  and  tinsel 
catch  the  gaping  crowd,  but  not  forever. 
Gilt  will  not  bear  the  handling  of  pure  gold. 
There  is  a  flush  of  common  sense  that  illu- 
mines the  intelleftual  night  of  the  masses,  as 
the  aurora  drives  the  blackness  of  darkness 
from  the  northern  sky.  Unfortunately,  it  is 
so  short-lived  a  light.  This  school-master 
had  his  little  day,  but  could  not  remain  on 
his  petty  throne  for  all  time,  as  he  wished. 
He  had  little  intrinsic  value,  and  the  fiat  of 
the  committee  could  not  keep  him  at  parity 
with  truth.  When  the  change  came  there 
was  a  general  sigh  of  relief,  but  no  one  spoke  : 
all  felt  how  they  had  helped  to  hold  up  the 
hands  of  the  humbug.  How  very  seldom 
are  we  really  brave.  How  well  are  we 
aware  that  one  of  the  unexplained  yet  very 
common  human  phenomena  is  conceit  of  so 
rank  a  type  as  to  be  a  perpetual  stench  in  the 
nostrils  of  decency,  and  yet  it  is  long  tol- 


208    My  Neighbor's  Wood-Shed 

crated  by  the  average  intelligence  of  a  com- 
munity and  retained  in  places  calling  for 
erudition. 

When  this  fellow  was  gone  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  wood-shed  cleared  considerably 
and  was  sweeter.  How  much  more  accept- 
able was  the  innocent  ignorance  of  the  native 
than  the  empty  declamations  of  a  bumptious 
chatterbox. 

But  there  were  many  days  when  the  wood- 
shed was  deserted, — bright,  sunny,  winter 
days,  when  the  farmer  folk  were  busy  and 
the  trapper  was  in  the  marsh  and  the  fisher- 
man with  his  little  nets  beneath  the  ice  kept 
guard  over  them  lest  the  big  pike  should 
give  him  the  slip.  The  children,  too,  were 
all  at  school,  and  the  wood-chopper  off  with 
his  ox-team  and  axe  to  the  far  woods.  It 
was  sweet  at  such  times  to  be  alone.  Here 
was  a  most  excellent  chance  to  welcome 
timid  day-dreams  and  hear  in  every  distant, 
muffled,  droning  sound  the  voices  of  the  long 
departed — music  from  far  away.  What  a 
sweet  sound  is  the  tinkle  of  drops  of  water 
when  the  snow  on  the  roof  is  melting ! 
Drip,  drip,  drip  !  And  my  thoughts  are  all 
atune  to  the  glad  sound.  So,  too,  my  mo- 


My  Neighbor's  Wood-Shed    209 

ments  pass,  pass,  pass,  and  the  bare  faft  that 
I  have  added  to  my  store  of  knowledge  this 
hour  is  that  I  am  older  than  when  I  entered 
the  shed ;  but  this  is  no  serious  matter.  Is 
there  not  such  a  thing  as  knowing  too  much  ? 
True  or  not,  I  covet  certain  pleasures  more 
than  a  brand-new  faft,  as  I  proved  to  myself 
to-day,  when  I  lived  over  again  the  good  old 
times  of  early  youth  and  had  converse  with 
the  sturdy  folk  that  made  this  world  brighter 
to  my  young  eyes  than  it  has  ever  been 
since  I  have  wandered  without  their  guidance. 
Such  an  hour  as  this  is  worth  walking  miles 
to  spend,  if  so  be  your  nearest  neighbor's 
wood-shed  is  so  far  away. 

Covered  as  is  every  cord-wood  stick  with 
suggestiveness  from  bark  to  innermost  splin- 
ter, there  is  less  to  be  conjured  up  by  one  of 
them  than  by  the  odd  bits  of  old  furniture 
that  occasionally  are  brought  to  the  wood- 
shed to  be  reduced  to  kindling.  What  a 
train  of  thought  can  be  touched  off  by  the 
leg  of  an  old  table,  the  arm  of  a  chair,  or 
the  claw-foot  of  a  bureau  !  To  discard 
old  furniture  is  much  like  throwing  away  a 
badge  of  respectability.  Even  though  past 
all  usefulness,  its  bones  should  be  sacred. 


2io    My  Neighbor's  Wood-Shed 

Better  turn  the  lid  of  an  old  desk  into  a 
bracket  or  wall-pocket  than  reduce  it  to 
ashes.  But  let  it  be  your  own  people's 
furniture.  Better  admit  that  you  had  no 
grandmother  than  palm  off  some  stranger's 
rocking-chair  as  an  heirloom.  The  real 
heir  may  turn  up  some  day  and  his  presence 
lead  to  your  confusion.  The  same  little 
spinning-wheel  has  bolstered  a  bogus  ances- 
tral toss  of  the  head  in  more  than  one  parlor 
in  the  last  decade,  and  what  a  row  was 
there  when  I  announced  that  the  successive 
owners  were  gilded  nobodies !  I  barely 
escaped  the  assassination  that  perhaps  my 
foolhardiness  deserved.  I  know  whereof  I 
speak  when  I  say  that  the  oldest  grand- 
father's clock,  according  to  its  owner's  ac- 
count, was  lying  as  ore  in  the  bowels  of  the 
earth  and  as  a  walnut-tree  grew  in  the  forest 
not  fifty  years  ago.  I  happen  to  hold  the 
documents  that  reveal  that  boastful  man's 
ancestral  history.  To  take  an  interest  in 
one's  family  history  is  well  enough,  but 
beware  of  the  pride  that  it  engenders  if  you 
can  go  back  a  few  centuries.  It  creates 
envy,  too,  and  many  a  heart-burning  in 
others  who  cannot  trace  their  forebears,  as 


My  Neighbor's  Wood-Shed    211 

well  as  leads  them  to  mild  sinning  of  a 
harmless  kind.  A  little  lying  and  a  good 
dinner  has  got  more  than  one  gentle  dame 
into  the  coterie  "  Colonial." 

But  the  shed  was  not  given  over  wholly  to 
wood,  a  few  people,  and  many  bugs.  What 
would  scarcely  be  expe&ed,  it  was  the  favor- 
ite hunting-ground  of  many  a  hungry  bird. 
I  mentioned  this  one  morning,  and  my  au- 
dience, a  stupid  lout,  remarked  at  once, 
"  Chickens,  you  mean,"  and  then  laughed, 
as  if  he  or  I  had  said  something  funny.  I 
did  not  offer  to  explain  to  him,  but  won- 
dered, in  silence,  if  it  could  be  true  that  this 
man  of  some  sixty  years  had  never  seen  the 
winter  wren  that  occasionally  came  darting 
through  a  knot-hole  and  chirped  merrily  as 
it  hunted  for  insefts  in  the  shed's  innumer- 
able nooks  and  crannies.  If  true,  then  better 
be  a  winter  wren  than  such  a  stolid  speci- 
men of  humanity.  Perhaps  it  is  better  to 
look  only  upon  the  bright  side  of  the  shield, 
but  there  is  a  dull  side,  nevertheless,  although 
we  may  never  see  it.  There  are  and  always 
have  been  men  in  this  old  neighborhood 
who,  while  within  the  pale  of  sanity,  are 
scarcely  more  intellectual  than  the  horses 


212    My  Neighbor's  Wood-Shed 

with  which  they  toil.  •'  Bat  they  can  talk," 
remarks  some  one.  "  So  can  horses,"  I 
reply.  Probably  I  have  said  too  much. 
This  is  dangerous  ground  whereon  to  tread, 
for  I  never  saw  a  fool  without  a  fist  and  with 
wit  enough  to  use  it,  and  yet  had  that  winter 
wren  perched  upon  the  knee  of  this  man  he 
would  have  brushed  it  off  as  he  would  a  wasp 
from  his  face  and  given  the  incident  no  fur- 
ther thought ;  perhaps  not  seen  the  differ- 
ence between  bird  and  insedl.  I  am  not 
exaggerating.  There  are  scores  of  just  such 
men  as  this  one  scattered  over  the  country. 
I  asked  one  once  to  kill  for  me  two  pairs  of 
squabs.  He  bit  their  heads  off.  They  are 
men  that  rouse  to  real  enthusiasm  when  there 
is  butchering  to  be  done,  and  when  unusual 
circumstances,  as  a  funeral,  force  them  to  a 
church  or  formal  gathering,  sleep  throughout 
the  proceedings.  They  are  carted,  like  pro- 
duce, to  market,  to  the  polling-place,  and 
given  slips  of  paper  to  place  in  a  box,  and 
are  then  carted  back  again,  excellent  citizens 
and  bright  examples  of  the  damnable  heresy 
of  universal  suffrage.  These  men  are,  in 
fa&,  savages  with  the  savage's  more  danger- 
ous instinfts  held  in  check.  Such  are  never 


My  Neighbor's  Wood-Shed    213 

observers  in  any  other  than  a  degraded  sense. 
They  can  dig  out  a  woodchuck  or  cut  down 
a  tree  to  catch  the  coon  in  its  branches,  and 
they  judge  of  game  by  but  two  expressions, 
— "  lean  as  a  snake"  and  "  fat  as  a  hog." 
When  their  prey  is  the  former  their  disap- 
pointment gives  way  to  cruelty ;  when  the 
latter,  the  animality  of  gluttony  obliterates 
all  else.  The  good  Quaker  farmers — all 
dead  now — who  used  to  own  all  these  lands 
said  of  these  men,  whom  they  hired  at  very 
low  wages,  '«  They  are  men  and  brothers ;" 
but  I  noticed  that  every  Quaker  of  them  all 
struggled  quite  ineffectually  to  conceal  his 
disgust  at  the  thought  of  such  relationship. 
The  phrase  fell  very  glibly  from  their  lips 
when  they  spoke  in  meeting,  but  not  a  word 
of  it  came  from  a  greater  depth  than  the 
mouth.  But  this  bold  assumption  of  sin- 
cerity is  common  everywhere.  It  was  no 
peculiarity  of  this  commonplace  corner. 
Words  that  have  much  sound  and  have  at 
times  been  weighty  with  significance  rattle 
now  like  pebbles  between  our  teeth,  are 
spoken  as  mechanically  as  our  breathing  is 
involuntary.  As  everywhere  else,  so  here 
at  Thee-thou  cross-roads,  an  earnest  man  has 


214    My  Neighbor's  Wood-Shed 

occasionally  appeared,  but  his  was  a  thorny 
path.  A  new  idea  was  as  sure  to  disturb  the 
sacred  routine  of  eventless  life  as  a  tornado 
cuts  a  path  in  the  forest,  and  Quakers  are 
opposed  to  violence.  But  mankind,  intelli- 
gent or  otherwise,  is  never  as  entertaining  as 
bird-kind,  which  is  never  stupid.  There 
was  more  fire  in  the  beady  black  eyes  of  my 
friend,  the  winter  wren,  than  could  be  gath- 
ered from  the  optics  of  a  whole  congrega- 
tion. 

When  I  have  been  lounging  here  in  the 
wood-shed,  alone  in  a  certain  sense, — for 
real  solitude  increases  with  the  number  of 
the  loungers, — I  have  seen  this  wee  brown 
bird  come  swiftly  as  a  sunbeam  through  a 
knot  hole  into  the  shed,  and,  perching  on  the 
chopping-block,  survey  the  surroundings  and 
myself  more  particularly.  Did  I  mean  mis- 
chief, was  the  evident  tenor  of  its  thoughts, 
and  by  my  absolute  quiescence  I  assured  it, 
as  best  I  could,  that  I  did  not.  There  was 
no  sudden  interchange  of  thought  between 
us,  but  when  an  understanding  was  reached 
the  purposes  of  the  wren  were  carried  out 
without  further  regard  to  myself.  This  it 
was  I  did  not  like.  It  is  a  great  shock  to 


My  Neighbor's  Wood-Shed    215 

human  pride  to  be  overlooked.  I  think  I 
could  have  sympathy  for  the  man  who  mur- 
dered because  unjustly  and  persistently  ig- 
nored. It  is  harder  to  bear  than  any  physi- 
cal pain,  and  to  crown  all  this  miserable 
business,  so  frequent  everywhere,  it  is  gen- 
erally the  genuine  worth  that  has  it  to  bear 
at  the  hands  of  the  upstart  whom  luck  has 
favored.  I  coaxed  my  wren  to  meet  me 
half-way,  but  my  soft  words  buttered  for  it 
no  parsnips.  Then  I  made  a  more  substan- 
tial advance  by  offering  food,  and,  when  I 
humbled  myself  to  be  the  bearer  of  its  cup 
and  trencher,  then  it  came  within  the  pale  of 
sociability,  and  I  slowly  gained  its  confidence, 
but  arm-length  confidence  only,  and  never  as 
much  as  contadl  with  my  finger-tips. 

It  is  the  wren,  however,  that  is  the  im- 
portant feature  of  the  place,  and  my  person- 
ality need  not  be  further  set  forth  to  public 
gaze.  The  wren  came  and  went  without 
let  or  hinderance,  and  wherever  it  chanced  to 
tarry  there  was  gladness,  except  possibly  in 
the  breasts  of  half-awakened  spiders  that 
even  in  midwinter  seemed  to  be  vaguely 
conscious  of  what  was  going  on  about  them. 
Do  they  hybernate  with  a  few  of  their  eyes 


216    My  Neighbor's  Wood-Shed 

open  ?  I  once  saw,  it  was  in  summer,  a 
huge  gray  spider  show  effectual  fight  and  the 
wren  —  the  little  house-wren  —  apparently 
suffered  from  the  poison  of  the  enraged 
arachnid's  bite ;  but  such  an  occurrence  is 
doubtless  quite  unusual.  But  all  this  hunting 
for  food  was  quite  commonplace  in  compar- 
ison to  the  exhibition  of  the  bird's  scanso- 
rial  ability.  To  people  with  poor  eyesight 
the  bird  would  certainly  be  taken  for  a 
mouse,  and  I  do  not  think  the  latter  ever 
ran  where  the  wren  could  not  follow. 
There  will  always  be  in  a  wood-shed,  as 
elsewhere,  some  inaccessible  nook  that  sooner 
or  later  attrafts  attention  and  arouses  a  deep 
desire  to  investigate.  More  than  once  I 
noticed  it  while  loitering  at  my  neighbor's. 
The  poor  bird  sometimes  found  that  neither 
wings  nor  legs  were  available,  and  the  little 
fellow's  annoyance  became  supreme.  The 
effort  to  poise  like  a  humming-bird  before  a 
flower  was  a  flat  failure, — though  I  have  seen 
a  crow  accomplish  this  difficult  feat  success- 
fully,— and  then  it  was,  as  if  to  soothe  its 
irritation,  the  bird  would  break  forth  in  a 
series  of  sweet  notes  that  was  something 
more  than  a  faint  echo  of  the  marvellous 


My  Neighbor's  Wood-Shed    217 

song  of  summer-tide.  To  be  baffled  is  never 
pleasant,  and  to  a  wren  of  any  species  it  is 
intolerable.  They,  of  all  birds,  demand 
their  own  way  in  all  things,  and  when  foiled 
are  not  models  of  patience,  even  though  they 
sing  at  such  a  time. 

Wrens,  like  ourselves,  have  their  full  share 
of  troubles,  and  the  btte  noir  of  this  wood- 
shed visitor  was  my  neighbor's  cat.  Gri- 
malkin never  appeared  to  drop  in  with  no 
special  purpose  in  view,  or  merely,  if  in 
winter,  for  the  sake  of  the  warmth  and 
shelter.  These  were  always  to  be  had  be- 
hind the  kitchen  stove.  There  was  one 
chance  in  a  thousand  of  surprising  that  wren, 
and  this  one  remote  possibility  was  a  power- 
ful incentive.  An  occurrence  like  this  would 
be  such  a  pleasant  break  in  the  monotony  of 
feline  existence  that  the  very  thought  was 
inspiring.  On  the  other  hand,  the  wren 
was  not  moved  by  fear  when  the  cat  ap- 
peared, but  by  intense  indignation.  There 
might  be  room  enough  in  the  world  for  cats 
and  wrens,  but  not  in  a  wood-shed.  The 
cry  was  immediately  set  up  of  war  to  the 
knife,  and,  like  many  another  noisy  conflict, 
ended  in  one  of  words  only.  The  wren 


218    My  Neighbor's  Wood-Shed 

protested  at  the  intrusion,  and  followed  this 
with  the  boldest  of  passes  at  grimalkin's 
face,  yet  always  stopped  short  just  out  of 
reach,  or,  making  an  attack  from  the  rear, 
sped  like  a  flash  of  light  over  the  cat's  head 
and  so  near  it  that  puss  shook  her  ears  and 
looked  the  daggers  that  she  would  like  to 
have  used.  Her  sharp  claws  came  and  went 
in  her  velvety  paws,  but  were  of  no  avail  as 
weapons  of  offence,  and  the  occasional  leap 
after  the  retreating  bird  fell  far  short  of  the 
intended  viftim.  The  wren's  dexterity  and 
the  cat's  continued  failure  begat  a  confidence 
in  the  former's  dauntless  breast  that  never  in 
turn  led  to  carelessness,  while  early  in  the 
game  grimalkin  became  discouraged  and  re- 
tired to  think  it  all  over  when  again  in  her 
accustomed  place  behind  the  kitchen  stove. 
Then  also  the  ordinary  chirp,  for  which  we 
can  suggest  no  special  significance,  became  a 
song-like  utterance  that  was  readily  inter- 
preted. Our  winter  birds,  as  we  see  them 
out  in  the  fields  or  along  the  narrow  cow- 
paths  leading  through  the  meadows,  may  not 
be  entertaining  at  all  times,  and  but  a  lan- 
guid interest,  at  best,  is  aroused  even  when 
they  sing,  but  there  is  an  infectious  earnest- 


My  Neighbor's  Wood-Shed    219 

ness  in  the  pretty  ways  of  the  wood-shed- 
haunting  winter  wren  to  which  the  spectator 
is  certain  to  respond  unless  as  sluggish  as 
some  of  the  strange  people  I  have  met. 
•  There  were  other  birds  that  occasionally 
made  visits,  but  not  one  of  them  attracted 
the  wren's  attention,  though  the  novelty  of 
the  surroundings  always  excited  their  volu- 
bility. The  nuthatches,  the  tree-creeper, 
golden-crowned  kinglet,  the  ever-delightful 
chickadee,  the  jaunty  crested  tit,  and  blue 
snowbirds  all  came  in  the  days  following 
a  deep  snow.  They  came,  they  saw,  but 
it  was  not  so  certain  what  they  conquered. 
Not  one  of  these,  however,  was  so  frequent 
a  visitor  as  that  prince  of  winter  song-birds, 
the  Carolina  wren.  It  was  never  at  a  loss 
for  a  song  and,  if  we  consider  chirping 
equivalent  to  talking,  as  I  have  always  done, 
for  something  to  say.  And  what  an  inspir- 
iting utterance  is  its  song !  The  air  fairly 
trembled  when  it  rang  out  in  the  clear,  cold 
air,  and  I  have  often  fancied  that  even  the 
sleepy  cows  in  the  barn-yard  looked  up  with 
pleasure.  Did  the  song  recall  the  sweet 
grasses  in  the  June  meadows  when  every 
thrush  was  cheering  its  nesting  mate  and  all 


220    My  Neighbor's  Wood-Shed 

the  bird-world  was  thankful  for  the  early 
summer?  How  little  is  needed  to  start  an 
endless  train  of  thought,  and  what  would  this 
world  be  without  its  unfailing  suggestive- 
ness  ?  Fafts  are  poor  things  when  they  lie 
about  us  as  so  many  soulless  clods  giving  no 
hint  of  whence  or  whither. 

Here  let  me  add  what  I  wrote  a  year  ago, 
when  lingering  alone  in  the  old  wood-shed, 
elaborating  a  few  notes  that  I  jotted  down 
that  day  and  days  before  when  wandering 
aimlessly  about,  or,  as  is  more  in  accordance 
with  winter  customs,  cuttin*  'cross  lots  for 
the  dear  old  shelter. 

Memory  and  imagination  serve  me  so  well, 
it  does  not  seem  possible  that  forty  years  have 
passed  since  old  Miles  Overfield  fashioned  a 
little  willow  whistle,  and,  gathering  a  group 
of  boys  about  him,  held  them  spell-bound  by 
the  skill  with  which  he  executed  *'  Money 
Musk,"  "  Irish  Washerwoman,"  and  "  Na- 
poleon crossing  the  Alps,"  and,  as  a  grand 
wind-up,  that  sweet  old  tune,  the  "  Merry 
Swiss  Boy."  I  have  said  "  a  group  of  boys." 
There  were  seven  of  us  then — but  two 
now.  Time  has  destroyed  or  witnessed  the 
destruction  of  much  that  made  the  world 


My  Neighbor's  Wood-Shed    221 

beautiful  in  our  eyes,  but  the  old  tunes  re- 
main, and  there  can  never  cling  to  more 
recent  and  elaborate  compositions  that  qual- 
ity of  endearment  which  is  the  firmly  fixed 
feature  of  the  old  tunes  I  have  mentioned. 
They  whispered  to  us  the  secret  of  music's 
charm,  and  we  shall  never  forget  the  thrill 
of  their  confidences.  Combine  those  same 
sweet  sounds  as  you  will,  and  bring  with 
them  the  choicest  of  a  poet's  thoughts,  it 
will  not  appeal  to  us  like  the  cruder  sweet- 
ness that  fell  upon  the  untutored-  ears  of 
boyhood. 

There  was  no  lack  of  bird-music  this 
morning.  A  warm  sun  after  a  snow-storm 
always  brings  the  minstrels  to  the  front,  and 
they  practise,  if  not  elaborately  perform,  at 
such  a  time.  It  is  a  strange  impression,  that 
has  been  crystallized  by  print,  that  birds  do 
not  sing  except  at  nesting-time.  As  well 
say  they  do  not  eat.  I  defy  any  one  to  in- 
dicate a  note  missing  from  a  robin's  song 
that  I  heard  yesterday.  It  was  snowing  at 
the  time,  but  not  even  this  disturbed  the 
bird.  Its  throat  was  full  of  sound  that 
trickled  out  with  as  much  sweetness  on  the 
bare  twigs  as  though  the  air  was  heavy  with 


222    My  Neighbor's  Wood-Shed 

the  odor  of  apple-blossoms.  Purple  finches 
put  enough  melody  in  their  lisping  chirps  to 
warm  the  north  side  of  the  old  oaks,  and 
what  the  Carolina  wren  thought  of  the 
weather  could  be  heard  half  a  mile  across 
the  meadows.  Winter  that  chills  a  bird's 
heart  does  not  wander  this  far  from  the 
Arftic  Circle.  So  much  for  midwinter  min- 
strelsy in  general,  and  a  word  now  of  that 
merriest  of  them  all,  the  dear  old  song- 
sparrow.  Since  the  country  was  settled  he 
has  been  the  chief  singer  of  the  garden,  the 
leader  of  the  choir  that  gathered  in  the  door- 
yards  of  old-time  farms,  the  associate  of  the 
wren  and  bluebird,  chippy  and  the  peewee, 
— all  sweet  singers  in  their  simple  way,  but 
fitful  and  fair-weather  birds,  that  must  needs 
have  summer  to  keep  them  in  humor;  but 
the  song-sparrow  is  unfaltering.  If  the 
gooseberry  hedge  is  not  sufficient  shelter, 
it  seeks  the  cedars  or  the  quaint  old  box- 
bush  that  stands  like  a  fossilized  sentinel  by 
the  front  door.  "  What  is  a  little  frost,"  it 
asks,  "  that  my  comrades  make  such  a  fuss  ?" 
There  is  plenty  and  to  spare  of  sunshine,  if 
not  just  here,  down  on  the  hill-side,  and  the 
wind  does  not  creep  around  every  corner. 


My  Neighbor's  Wood-Shed    223 

I  have  learned  to  take  my  winter  outings  as 
the  song-sparrow  takes  his,  and  we  have 
good  times  together,  and  then,  beyond  all 
else,  he  still  sings  the  same  old  song  that  I 
heard  when  the  world  beyond  the  garden 
walls  was  all  a  mystery. 

Lilacs,  syringa,  cocorus,  a  Missouri  cur- 
rant-bush, peonies,  poppies,  clove -pinks, 
Johnny-jump-ups,  a  patch  of  ribbon-grass, 
a  gooseberry  hedge,  grape-arbor  with  blue- 
bird-box at  entrance,  and  plenty  of  song- 
sparrows.  Arrange  them  as  you  choose, 
that  makes  little  difference,  but  of  such  ma- 
terial was  formed  the  old-fashioned  garden, 
and  there  never  has  been  any  improvement 
upon  it.  Evolution  exhausted  itself  in  that 
direction  in  colonial  times.  I  only  knew 
Quakers  in  my  earliest  days,  but  were  these 
folk  not  over-fanciful  in  declaring  that  the 
bird  sang  tbee,  tbee,  tbee,  tbee — tbee,  tbee, 
tbou,  tbou?  I  have  heard  other  and  more 
descriptive  words  used,  but  it  is  folly  to 
attempt  an  imitation  of  song  by  phrases. 
The  quail  says  Bob  White,  and  all  the  rest 
of  bird  utterances  are  matters  only  of  their 
own  language. 

Every  spot,  however  limited,  has  its  own 


224    ^7  Neighbor's  Wood-Shed 

atmosphere.  The  air  of  the  meadow  and 
of  the  upland,  of  the  mountains  and  sea- 
shore, are  the  same,  yet  how  unlike  !  Within 
the  range  of  my  rambles  the  sand  all  sum- 
mer drinks  in  the  sunshine  and  gives  it  back 
in  generous  volume  during  the  coldest  win- 
ter days.  Here  we  have  what  my  neigh- 
bors call  a  "  soft"  air, — one  tempered  by  the 
wealth  of  odors  from  a  varied  vegetation. 
The  trailing  arbutus,  sweet-scented  vernal- 
grass,  June  roses,  the  magnolia  of  the 
swamps,  new-mown  hay,  blooming  grape, 
yarrow  and  the  many  mints,  and  the  rich 
aroma  of  the  ripened  nuts, — all  these  and 
many  more  leave  a  trace  behind  them,  and 
I  fancy  that  I  recognize  each,  in  turn,  when 
the  first  frosty  winds  of  winter  rattle  the 
loose  shingles  overhead  and  whistle  through 
the  seamy  walls  of  my  neighbor's  wood- 
shed. 


THE    END. 


INDEX 


A.  Acorns,  92. 

Adams,  Samuel,  119. 

Apple-trees,  irregular  growth  of,  177. 

April,  13,  172. 

Arbutus,  12,  224. 


Arrow-leaf,  68. 

y&£,  138. 

Aster,  182. 

Audubon  Society,  purpose  of,  33. 

August,  39,  202. 

B.  Bacon,  Lord,  quoted,  19. 

lfar££  Cr«£,  154. 
.Btfw,  71. 

Batrachians  destroyed  by  drought,  70. 
.ffatt,  68. 

Bee,  carpenter,  199. 
.£«**,  50,  52. 
Bees,  49,  174. 
Belle  fieur,  180. 
£«rjy  yf«»,  152. 
15  225 


226  Index 

Sire h ,  odor  oft  197. 
Birds,  migration  of,  28. 

'wanton  destruction  of,  32. 
Bitter-sweet,  64. 
Black-berries ,  43. 
Blackbirds,  red-winged,  42. 
Bluebird,  30,  223. 
Bob-white,  42,  223. 
Boneset,  138. 
Boxwood,  49. 

Bryant,  W.  C.,  quoted,  22. 
Butterfly,  29. 

mourning  cloak,  203. 

painted  beauty,  202. 

re*/  admiral,  202. 

swallow-tailed,  203. 
Butterflies,  46. 

C.  Cardinal,  24,  91,  139. 

Catbirds,  43,  55. 
Chestnut,  51,  138. 
Chickadee,  178,  219. 
Chipmunk,  76. 
Clove-pinks,  223. 
Cocorus,  223. 
Company,  97. 

Concord,  Massachusetts,  20. 
Cor  nw  alii  s,  187. 
Creeper,  178. 
Crickets,  39,  192. 
Crosswich  Creek,  148,  198,  205. 


Index  227 


Crow,  a4,  61,78,  '°3»  I39- 

,  Il8. 


D.          Daffodils,  I  a. 

Delaware  River,  13,  33. 

Diogenes,  78. 

Dodder,  52,  138. 

Dragon-jlies,  46. 

Drought,  effects  of,  65. 

Dutch  fur-traders  of  Delaware  Valley,  13. 

Earthworm,  69. 

F.  Fagan,  Humphrey,  183. 

Ferns,  88,  9*- 
Finches,  ^^. 
Fishes,  15,  70- 
Flicker,  174. 
Fly-catchers,  33. 

Fog1,  ^«/  o/,  o»  migrating  birds,  2,8. 
Frog,  leopard,  15. 
Fngt,6»,?i. 
Furniture,  old,  209. 

G.  Gentian,  fringed,  59. 

Georgius  tertius,  191. 
Ghosts,  1 08. 
Golden-rod,  1 8 a. 
Gooseberry,  223. 


228  Index 

Grape,  224. 

arbor ,  223. 

hyacinth^  22. 
Grasshoppers ,  71. 

sweet-scented  vernal,  224. 
Grosbeak,  rose-breasted,  33,  37. 
G«w,  io«r,  crimson  leaves  of,  51. 

H.          Hancock,  John,  190. 
H*r«,  68. 
Harrier,  95. 
ffow/i,  £/<!<:/&,  1 39. 
Hawks,  61. 
/fay,  netu-mo'wn,  214- 
Hazel-nut,  51. 
Heron,  great  blue,  24,  47 

white,  25. 

Hickory  Meadow,  156. 
Hornets,  2OO. 
Hyacinth,  grape,  22. 

I.  Indian,  12,  14. 

summer,  58. 
Iron-weed,  138. 

J.  7*y,  *to,  82. 

Johnny-jump-ups,  223. 

K.  Kinglet,  91. 

golden-crowned,  219. 


Index  229 


L.  Laurel,  170. 

Lilacs,  223. 
Lincoln,  A.,  123. 
Lizards,  44. 
Lizards  tall,  138. 
Loitering,  delights  of,  194. 

M.          Magnolia,  224. 

Mallow,  rose,  68,  138. 
Mantis,  praying^  200. 
Mice,  deer,  94. 

meadow,  94. 

w»7</,  67,  76. 
M/«*,  44,  47,  176. 
Minnow,  mud,  71. 
Minnows,  69,  71. 
M/»r,  224. 
Missouri  currant,  223. 
Mole,  star-nosed,  69. 
Mc««,  58,  81,  85. 
Mouse,  jumping,  76. 

meadow,  69,  76. 

white-footed,  76,  83,  94,  175. 
Music,  old-fashioned,  220. 

N.  Napoleon,  119,  123. 

Night-hawk,  68. 
Nottingham,  hermit  of,  195. 
Nuthatches,  55,  178,  219. 


230 


Index 


O.,  Oak,  odor  of,  197. 

Oaks,  13,  52,  138,  143. 

October,  171. 

Orchards  attractive  to  animal  life,  175. 

Orioles,  37. 

0i//</,  quoted,  21. 

01D/J,  179. 

P.  Part,  overdoing  the,  1  1  8. 

Pearmain  apple,  180. 
Pearson,  Isaac,  190. 
Pebbles,  significance  of,  52. 
Pee-iuee,  37. 

woorf,  55. 
Peonies,  223. 
PcnrA,  71. 

Perrivoinkle,  Job,  146. 
P/cferc/  -zww^,  68. 

P/&,  71- 

P/«e  robbers,  1  8  6. 

P/8M,   143. 

Pippin,  golden,  180. 
Plover,  27. 
PoH^/  22«»,  69. 
Petfitf,  223. 
Poverty  Cross,  147. 
Princeton,  Neiv  Jersey,  187. 
18. 


Q.  ^aa/7,  223 


Index  231 


R.  Rabbit*,  76. 

Rahl,  Colonel,  185. 
Raspberries,  49. 
Raven,  27. 
Redbird,  24. 
Redstart,  37. 

Revolution,  American,  119. 
Ribbon-grass,  223. 
lb'/ey,  C.  f.,  y«ott</,  200. 
Robin,  174,  221. 
224. 


S.  Salamanders,  15,  69. 

Sassafras,  43,  45,  149- 

o</or  q/",  198. 

Seek-no-farther  apple,  181. 
Shellbarks,  51. 
Shrews,  67. 
5^«»)i,  176. 

s*0K  o/,  54. 
35,  44. 

Snowbirds,  219. 
Solitude,  107. 
Sparrow,  English,  31. 
40. 

3°.  >79f  "3- 
Sparrows,  178,  192. 
Sphagnum,  62. 
Spicewood,  8  1  . 
5/>/<fcri,  50,  52,  201. 
Spring,  signs  of,  n. 


232  Index 

Squirrel,  8 1. 

Strawberries ,  49. 
Sturgeon,  205. 
Summery  Indian,  58. 
Swallow,  barn,  15. 
Swallows,  1 6,  a 6. 
Swan  Island,  157. 
Sycamore,  30. 
Syringa,  223. 

T.  Thoreau,  H.  D.,  quoted,  20,  59,  1 1 6. 

14,  33,  55,  103. 

13,  24,  85,  89,  103,  138,  219. 
Toad,  78. 
Tortoise,  land,  76. 
Tree-creeper,  219. 

Trenton  (New  Jersey),  battle  of,  183. 
Turtle,  6^,  70. 

snapping,  44. 
Turtles,  130. 

V.  Violet^  II,  14,  17,  80. 

Vireo,  red-eyed,  43. 
J7«w,  33. 

W.          Walking-sticks,  199. 
Walnuts,  51. 
Walnut-tree,  148. 
Warblers,  37. 
Washington,  125,  187. 


Index  233 


Wasps,  174,  aoo. 
Waterloo  •,  119. 
Weasel,  176. 
West  Jersey,  146. 
Willow  Bend,  156. 
Windfalls,  170. 
Wine-sap,  175. 
Winter-green,  80. 
Woodchuck,  213. 
Woodpecker,  doiuny,  178. 

golden-winged,  35,  82. 
Woodward,  Apollo,  187. 
^r<r«,  Carolina,  56,  8l,  21 

Ao««,  30,  34. 

•winter,  211,  214. 

Y.  r*rrow,  50,  53,  57,  224. 


ELECTKOTYPED  AND  PRINTED  BY  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY, 
PHILADELPHIA,  U.S.A. 


